#✦ … AND THAT’S HOW BABIES ARE BORN! ✦ 「 answered 」
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We need drew when rustyns born, like labor/delivery, I think he’s the most supportive partner 😭😭
here are more rustyn for ya.
𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐲𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐲
pairing: drew starkey x fem!reader
summary: your due day has finally come for you and drew to meet your little one. as labor unfolds, drew proves to be the most supportive partner, balancing his nerves with humor, tenderness, and unwavering love.
warning(s): english is not my native language. mentions of childbirth, medical procedures, mild pain, fluff, humour, use of y/n.
au: like, reblog and feedback are much appreciated. taglist | tagging: @rafeyslamb @rubixgsworld @bisexualcvnt @tracymbcm @maybankslover @anamiad00msday @stuffyownswrld @httpsdrewstarkey @mileyraes @enjoymyloves @akobx @noobmazter69 @victwrvale @xoxohoneymoongirl @xoxoblogsblog @wearemadeofstardust0 @percysley @littlelamy
“Drew,” you whispered, reaching over to nudge your husband’s shoulder.
He remained motionless, his breathing slow and even. Another contraction gripped you, and you couldn’t stifle a soft groan. With more urgency this time, you called his name again.
“Drew… babe”
This time, he stirred. His brow furrowed before his blue eyes slowly blinked open.
“Hmm? What’s wrong?” he mumbled, still half-asleep.
“I think my water just broke,” you said softly, offering a small, nervous smile.
The words took a moment to register, but when they did, Drew bolted upright.
“What?!” His voice was shock and excitement.
“Oh my god, it’s happening! Are you okay? How are you feeling? Is it bad? What do I do?” He scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over the duvet in his rush.
You couldn’t help but laugh at his frantic reaction, though it was cut short by another contraction.
“I’m okay, but we should probably get to the hospital soon. Can you calm down, though? I don’t need two emergencies tonight.”
“Right, right,” he said, running a hand through his messy hair.
He grabbed the hospital bag you’d packed weeks ago, holding it like it was the most precious cargo.
“Let’s go!”
“Wait,” you said, stopping him. “I need to change my pants first.”
“Oh. Right.” He was back at your side in an instant, helping you up with his hands steady on your arms.
His gaze was full of concern as he scanned your face.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Does it hurt a lot?”
“The contractions are getting closer, but they’re manageable,” you replied, leaning into him as he helped you change.
“But yeah, we really need to go now.”
At the hospital, Drew took charge, answering questions from the nurse about how far you are, are you on any special medication and filling out the paperwork as you were wheeled into your room.
Once you were settled, Drew pulled a chair next to your bed, gripping your hand tightly.
“How are you feeling now?” he asked, his voice soft yet anxious.
“I’m okay for now,” you said, though the contractions were growing stronger and more frequent.
“I didn’t realize how many needles they’d stick in me during all this.”
Drew gave a small laugh, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead.
“You’re handling it like a champ. I don’t think I’d survive five minutes of this.”
Another contraction hit, and you gripped his hand tightly, your breathing uneven. Drew immediately shifted closer, his voice calm and steady.
“Breathe, Y/N. In and out, baby. You’ve got this.”
Hours and hours has passed, and Drew never left your side. He held your hand through every contraction, rubbed your back when the pain became overwhelming, and even tried to make you laugh to keep your spirits up. When you hit the ten-hour mark, Drew suddenly pulled out the camcorder from his sister Brooke, who had brought it to document the big day.
“What are you doing?” you asked, raising an eyebrow despite your exhaustion.
“Making a video for Rustyn,” he said, grinning. “Something for him to watch when he’s older.”
He turned the camera to himself first, his smile lighting up the room.
“Hey, Rustyn. It’s your dad. It’s 6 a.m., and you’re really taking your time, buddy. But that’s okay, we’re waiting patiently. Well, your mom’s doing all the work.”
Turning the camera toward you, he continued,
“And here’s your mom. Look at her, look how incredible she is. The strongest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. You better treat her like a queen when you grow up, okay?”
Despite the pain, you laughed softly. “Drew, stop making me laugh, it hurts!”
He chuckled, then turned the camera toward Brooke, who was pacing in the corner.
“And here’s your Aunt Brooke, who’s been on the edge of her seat all night.”
“Rustyn, ignore your dad,” Brooke said, rolling her eyes. “I’m much cooler than he is, and I can’t wait to spoil you.”
When the doctor finally announced it was time to push, Drew’s nerves hit an all-time high. He squeezed your hand tightly, his other hand brushing the sweat-dampened hair from your face.
“You’ve got this, Y/N,” he said, his voice shaking slightly but full of love. “I’m so proud of you.”
The first push was overwhelming, and you let out a cry of frustration.
“I can’t do this,” you said, tears streaming down your face. “Drew, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” he said firmly, his eyes locking with yours.
“You’re the strongest person I know. Just one push at a time, baby. I’m right here.”
With each push, he offered constant encouragement.
“That’s it, Y/N. You’re doing amazing. Our boy’s almost here. I love you so much.”
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a loud cry filled the room. Tears immediately welled up in Drew’s eyes as the doctor placed your baby boy on your chest.
Drew was trembling as he leaned over, his eyes fixed on the tiny baby in your arms.
“Oh my god,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Y/N, he’s perfect.”
You stared down at Rustyn, overwhelmed by love and relief. His tiny fingers curled against your chest, his cries subsiding as he felt your warmth.
“We did it,” you whispered, tears streaming down your cheeks, happy tears.
“No,” Drew said, pressing a kiss to your temple.
“You did it. You’re amazing.”
The nurses congratulated you both, while Brooke captured every moment on the camcorder. Drew leaned down, his forehead resting gently against yours.
“I love you so much, Y/N. Thank you for giving me him.”
“What should we name him?” you asked softly, your voice shaky with emotion.
Drew didn’t hesitate. “Rustyn. Rustyn Starkey.”
You nodded, smiling down at your son. “Rustyn. It’s perfect.”
Drew reached out, brushing a finger over Rustyn’s tiny hand.
“Hey, buddy. Welcome to the world. We’ve been waiting for you.”
#drew starkey#rafe cameron#drew starkey imagine#rafe cameron imagines#drew starkey imagines#rafe cameron imagine#drew starkey x y/n#rafe cameron fanfic#drew starkey x you#rafe cameron x y/n#drew starkey fanfiction#drew starkey fanfic#drew x reader#with drew#drew#drew starkey x reader#drew starkey smut#rafe#obx rafe#rafe outer banks#rafe x you#rafe fanfiction#rafe smut#rafe x reader#rafe imagine#drew starkey fluff#drew starkey gif#drew starkey one shot#by rafedarling
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ᡣ𐭩 WE WERE BORN SICK
FEATURING: dazai osamu
SUMMARY: that sinking feeling that's been looming over you both has finally come to fruition. truths are revealed, questions are answered, but one big one remains: is love enough for you and dazai's relationship to survive this?
AUTHOR'S NOTES: happy fridayyyyy, i can't believe we only have one chapter left of civzai, it's actually makin me emotional </3 this chapter was quite a doozy to write, and i hope it's equally a doozy to read HAHAH no no jkjk , i hope you enjoy. also do u guys want to add an arcane au to the dazaiverse .. ive been thinking heavily about it. comments & reblogs appreciated
GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, civilian!dazai, dazai's struggles w suicide & sh, reader partakes in mafia business, dazai isn't dazai without a bit of obsessiveness and possessiveness (the possessiveness doesn't come til later but the obsessiveness starts from day 0).
CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: hardly edited. angsty chapter. explicit depiction of suicide (past recollection of dazai), implications of past self-harm (dazai), very toxic thought processes at certain parts (dazai), past (and a bit of current) suicide ideation (dazai), manic behavior (reader).
SEE: WASTELAND, BABY! SERIES MASTERLIST
“I’ve been eager to meet you for quite a while. In all of the years I’ve known her, my little hime has never let something as trivial as a boy come between her and our work… I knew you must be special, but I never could’ve imagined just how special. I’m so pleasantly surprised.”
Dazai’s head throbs as he comes to his surroundings. He’s laying in an uncomfortable bed—a hospital bed, he thinks, he can smell the unfortunately familiar scent of antiseptic, but the walls aren’t the typical white he’s used to. He winces as he sits up, unable to recall where he is or what happened to him. Everything is too fuzzy, he remembers being with Fitzgerald, the car ride to the tea house, and-
And he remembers you.
He remembers you.
He lets out a shaky breath as he recalls the way you’d pulled him into your arms, cradling him close as soon as you got him back from Fitzgerald. God, he only got to be with you for what felt like a second. It wasn’t enough time. It wasn’t nearly enough time. You sent him off, he remembers—you sent him with two of your subordinates, the weretiger and that freaky little girl, and then…
“Shhh… Don’t speak. I want to get this done and over with.”
The gun to his back, Atsushi and Kyouka’s cries of shock, the baton to his head.
“No can do, weretiger. On orders from the boss.”
His mind tracks back to the words that had been spoken as he was teetering on the edge of consciousness, mouth going dry and eyes widening as he becomes acutely aware of the other person in the room with him. His gaze flicks up to where a vaguely familiar man sits at a desk watching him—straight chin-length black hair, inquisitive purple eyes, a long black coat, Dazai isn’t sure where he recalls this man from but he knows that they’ve met before.
“Who…” Dazai asks, voice wavering as pain shoots through his head with every little movement. “Who are you? Have we… met before?”
His wrist hurts. His mother’s nails dig into his skin so deep that it draws blood, and he doesn’t know what’s going on. He’d just been sleeping—is he still sleeping? He isn’t sure. He’s stumbling over his own feet trying to keep up with her, he keeps asking her what’s going on but she doesn’t answer him.
They turn a hall and his mother stops so suddenly that he slams right into her, nearly tripping over onto the ground. He doesn’t even regain his footing before his mother is pulling him back the way he came, he looks over his shoulder trying to figure out what caused his mother to panic so badly and he looks at—a man?
Who is that?
Why is he coming from grandfather’s room?
Is that-
Blood?
“Shuji! Shuji, don’t look back! Keep moving!”
Shuji? Who’s Shu-
“I think you know the answer to that already.” Dazai is startled out of the memory—was that a memory?—by the man’s voice. He sounds amused, and from the way that his eyes are glittering, Dazai can tell he’s finding great entertainment out of this situation. It pisses Dazai off. “Don’t you?”
“Tane-chan, you know you won’t be able to hide him forever. You’re just making this harder on yourself.”
Dazai’s breath catches. He shifts backward on the bed to press his back against the wall. Everything is wrong—the air is too cold, his bandages are itching, his head hurts, and he doesn’t know what’s going on. Who is Shuji? Why is he thinking of his mother after all of these years? And what… what was he remembering?
Memories of his youth have always been sparse and fleeting—he can vaguely recall the faces of his siblings, the anxiety he felt around his grandfather, the loneliness—but something like this… The panic on his mothers face, the pain in his wrist, the way she was dragging him around, the fear in her voice when she screamed at Dazai—was he Shuji? But then why—to not look back, to keep moving. He would remember something like that. That would be… crazy to forget, right?
What is going on?
“You’re Mori,” Dazai breathes out, clearing his throat. He hopes he doesn’t look as disconcerted as he feels, but he thinks he must. “You’re…”
The leader of the Port Mafia.
The closest thing you have to a father.
So, how does Dazai remember him from years ago? It doesn’t make sense. He couldn’t have been older than thirteen, maybe fourteen in that memory. What did he forget? When did he meet him? What’s going on? Dazai wants to scream, his mind is still slow from just waking up—he doesn’t even know how long he was unconscious, it couldn’t have been that long.
Mori’s smile widens as if Dazai just walked right into whatever trap that had been laid out for him, violet eyes flashing with a type of cruel amusement that makes Dazai sick to his stomach. Dazai has to circle back to remember what he just said, he needs to snap out of the daze he’s in. He needs to think. He made a mistake—Dazai made a mistake. He shouldn’t have admitted that he knew Mori. That was a mistake.
How does he fix it?
Can he fix it?
“You do know,” Mori says, like he didn’t actually expect Dazai to admit that he knew him. Like he’s pleasantly surprised. Again. Like Dazai just made things much easier for him. Shit. “Interesting.”
He’s going to use it against Dazai. Dazai knows it. He’s going to use it against him to hurt you. He remembers everything he’s learned about your relationship with Mori—how he pit you against that other girl, Yosano, to get results from you. And he already said it. He already said that Dazai is getting between you and your work, he’ll do the same thing here. He’ll pit you against him.
He’s going to tell you that Dazai knew who Mori was, and that Dazai is someone that he’s not—who is Shuji? Why doesn’t he remember his own name? Is that really his name? How does Mori know all of this? Who is Dazai?—and Dazai needs to be able to say something. He needs to be able to explain. How does he explain this when he doesn’t even know what’s going on? Dazai needs to remember; he needs to remember now, he needed to remember yesterday, because if he’s not the one to tell you this… If he can’t explain this…
This cannot be happening—it can’t. Right when he thought everything would be okay, when he would be with you. His throat starts to clog as anxiety clouds his head and weighs on his chest, a panic attack that he can’t afford right now. He needs to think, he needs to figure out what’s going on—Mori knows something about Dazai that he doesn’t know himself, and he’s going to use it against him to drive a wedge between the two of you. He’s going to tell you, and-
Dazai’s world feels woozy. Why can’t he remember? How does he know Mori? What was happening that night with his mother? He needs to snap out of this, needs to think, but he can’t even breathe. Fear—the mind killer.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Dazai rasps, his voice is hoarse, and he feels sick, and he hates admitting that he doesn’t know what’s happening, but he needs Mori to believe it so that he doesn’t tell you something that’s not true. “I don’t know how I know you. I don’t-”
“You might believe that,” Mori says amused, “but will she?”
Dazai stares at Mori, his stomach churns violently and his vision swims as the answer becomes abundantly clear to him.
He doesn’t know.
———
The gun in your hand weighs heavily.
You hid it in the inside of your blazer to get up to the conference room. No weapons are allowed up past the thirty-fifth floor unless you’re one of the Boss’s hand-picked personal guards—even executives are forced to disarm themselves before going up, but security is much more lax for the upper echelon. Because you’re you—the hime, second-in-command, the Boss’s daughter—the guards outside of the elevator that goes directly to the top floor wave you past the metal detectors to go on up.
A mistake.
(Who is Tsushima Shuji? It can’t be Dazai. You know Dazai. Mori must be wrong.)
The smile on your face is bland and doesn’t meet your eyes as you walk down the hall to the conference room attached to Mori’s office. You greet the guards, and they don’t notice how off your demeanor is, too starstruck over the fact that they’re being acknowledged for once. They also don’t notice the way your hand is curled around the grip of your gun in your blazer.
A mistake.
(Mori is never wrong. Do you really know Dazai?)
When you reach the end of the hallway, you toss them one last brilliant smile. This one is a bit more genuine because you’ve realized that you’ve gotten through the top notch security of the upper levels of the Port Mafia headquarters without a hitch. That you’re one step closer to finishing this. They’re so blinded by the beauty of your smile that they don’t realize your teeth have sharpened into knives and the floral perfume you wear masks a putrid bloodlust.
A mistake.
(It’s always been odd, hasn’t it? The way he approached you. The way he was so insistent on pushing himself into your life. You always questioned it. There was a sinking feeling that something wasn’t as it seemed. Why didn’t you question it more?)
You keep your back turned as you slip into the room. You can feel four presences behind you—Kouyou, Piano Man, Chuuya, Ace. No Mori. No Dazai. That’s fine—you have something to take care of before they show up anyway. The conference room is soundproof; Mori designed it that way because he didn’t want the guards outside to overhear any discussion of sensitive topics. Even if he handpicked them for their loyalty, he understands that money can make the most devout man’s faith waver. Still, it’s not them rushing in that you’re worried about—it’s the people in the room with you rushing out, so you very carefully twist the nub of the lock and then reach up to fix the deadbolt. It won’t stop them, but it will slow them. You can feel their eyes on you as you make sure the door is locked, but none of them call you out for it or try to stop you.
A mistake.
(Mori always told you that the Tsushimas were like cockroaches. If they all weren’t killed, one would eventually return to reclaim their grandfather’s empire. There’d be a power struggle between the factions loyal to the new regime and the ones that still hid in the shadows believing that the Tsushima blood belonged at the head of the organization. Everything the two of you had built would crumble to ashes.)
You turn to make your way over to the conference table where the four of them are sitting. You haven’t decided how you want to go about this yet. You don’t know who all was aware of what Mori did, and because of that, you don’t know who needs to die. Treachery has always faced a death penalty—you don’t care if Mori ordered it, you don’t care that the Boss’s word is absolute, you have bled and breathed for the Port Mafia. You’ve sacrificed everything you’ve ever owned and wanted for the Port Mafia. You have made the Port Mafia into what it is today with your efforts abroad and at home—foreign governments, foreign criminal organizations, the Japanese government and other domestic mafias, all of them are just puppets that you pull the strings of to ensure the Port Mafia stays on top. Treachery against you will face the same penalty one would receive if they betrayed the Port Mafia, because you are the Port Mafia—Mori has made sure of that.
Chuuya and Piano Man share a look with one another as you approach the table. Neither of them say anything—is it confusion? Is it guilt? Did they know? Were you the only one unaware of the schemes going on around you? Were you the only one loyal? The only one you could trust?
Did they know?
Did they know?
(No one could ever love you without your ability at work influencing them. You’ve known that since the very beginning, but you were so quick to forget that when you discovered Dazai’s ability. You should have had more questions, you should have been more suspicious. Mori had been right from the very beginning. You were emotionally compromised. You were weak.)
Ace opens his mouth to speak.
A mistake.
“It was nice meeting your-”
Ace’s head hits the conference table with a hard thunk, his eyes wide and glassy, his mouth open around the words you didn’t let him finish speaking. Blood seeps from the bullet hole in his temple and pools around his head and the ground beneath his chair, staining the glass table and the white floors.
Instead of lowering your arm, you shift it so that the gun is pressed against Piano Man’s temple next. Chuuya says your name—it’s awful, something caught between a gasp of shock and confusion, he’s never said your name like that before. Like he doesn’t know what you’re doing. Like he doesn’t understand you. Like you’re something unfamiliar. Unrecognizable. You ignore him anyway, and the pangs that come along with it, and instead, you keep your gaze trained on Piano Man’s face.
He’s not as panicked as Chuuya, but you can tell that he’s just as caught off guard from the way his lips are twisted. He watches you carefully, waiting for you to say whatever you’re going to say—if you were going to pull the trigger, you would’ve done so immediately, he knows that. He’s always been good at reading you, better than even Chuuya sometimes.
“Did you know?”
Your voice is steadier than you expect it to be. Cold almost. Distant. You don’t recognize it yourself, you suppose it’s no wonder that Chuuya’s staring at you with such a foreign expression. You watch him just as carefully as he does you. He has a tell when he lies: he squints. Not an obvious squint, just the barest hint of his eyes squeezing shut like he’s calculating exactly what he wants to say, in what tone and with what fluctuation he wants to say it.
A subtle tell, but a tell nonetheless.
“No.”
He stares at you steadily as he says it. There’s no squint—he’s telling the truth. You don’t let out a breath of relief, but you certainly feel the weight off of your shoulders. You lower the gun, satisfied with his response, and then you walk over to where Chuuya is sitting.
You don’t raise the gun to his temple immediately. He looks up at you, you look down at him, a whole conversation is had in the silence between you, and eventually he lowers his lashes in resignation, telling you to do what needs to be done for you to feel more at ease.
He’s always put others before himself.
You lift the gun at the same time he lifts his gaze to meet yours. He could activate the Tainted Sorrow and end this before it starts, but he doesn’t—you know in your gut that if you pulled the trigger right now, he would accept the fate you delivered. Probably would take it as a better one than he deserved—it being at your hands rather than Arahabaki.
“Did you know?” you ask. The words taste bitter, rancid—they don’t belong there, Chuuya would never betray you, but you had to hear it from him.
Chuuya doesn’t have many tells when he lies—he’s a good actor, much better than people give him credit for. If he wanted to lie to you, he might be able to get away with it. But he won’t lie to you, not when he’s looking you in the eye.
“No,” he says, voice soft and raspy like he can’t believe he has to say it.
You let the gun drop to your side. It weighs heavier now—heavier than it did in the elevator, heavier than it did in the hallway leading to the room, heavier than it did when it was pressed against Piano Man’s head. You can hardly bear to keep holding it, but you’re not done yet.
Slowly, your gaze turns to Kouyou. Her expression is cold and unreadable, gaze pinned on you in the same way a lion stalks its prey through the tall grass… No, that’s not right. She stares at you with the same look in her eyes that a snake does when it’s curled in a corner, rattle shaking and hissing to try to scare off the predator that has it trapped.
“You knew,” you breathe out softly in disbelief. Your voice hardens and tightens as you repeat, “You knew!”
Before you can raise your gun—before you can pull the trigger four, five, six times, before you can riddle her body with holes because how dare she know, how dare she know and not tell you after what the previous boss did to her—the door that separates the conference room from Mori’s office opens, and your attention is drawn to the one person who caused all of this.
“Oh my,” Mori says airly, looking between you, Ace’s body, and Kouyou with an expression that is frustratingly amused. “I see you’ve been busy.”
You don’t even know what to say to that. You almost want to laugh. You think you do laugh, actually—someone does, and you think it’s you, because you feel yourself walking away, you lift your hands to your head to tug at your ears in frustration. Your vision is blurry—are you crying?
“You betrayed me,” you finally say, voice quieter than you intend, so you raise it as you repeat yourself. “You betrayed me. You. Of all people I never thought you would be the one to-”
You can’t even finish the sentence, your voice cracks over the words. It makes you feel sick, it makes you angry, it makes you want to crawl out of your skin, because how could he? To you? You don’t know why you’re so angry, why you’re so betrayed. Mori has always made it clear that his priority is the Port Mafia, but still, to do this to you. To do this to his-
To his what?
You’re not his daughter. You hate when people imply that you are, you hate being called hime, you hate being called ‘Miss Mori’, you hate when people give you respect because of your perceived relationship to him.
He’s the only father you’ve ever known. Almost every decision you’ve made has been with the motive of making him proud of you. When he seeks out your opinion specifically during meetings, your chest becomes warm with pride.
You don’t love him. How could you? Look at what you’ve become because of him.
Then why do you feel so betrayed? Why did you think he would be the last person to do something like this to you when you know the type of person he is? Why does your chest feel like it’s caving in? Like your heart’s been ripped right out of it? Why does this hurt as much—why does this hurt more than Dazai’s potential betrayal?
And he certainly doesn’t love you. He never would have done this if he did.
He’s killed people for disrespecting you—he hardly ever gets his own hands dirty, but he does when it’s you and your dignity on the line. He spends hours meticulously picking out birthday presents that he knows you’ll like. He gets sad when he invites you for lunch and you don’t join him, reminiscing about the days where you clung to the back of his coat.
He touches your shoulder, and your finger twitches on the trigger of the gun. You want to lift it, press it to his temple and pull the trigger just like you did to Ace, but you can’t. Your arm feels like lead, and when his hand slides down to your bicep to force you to turn around and face him so that your back is to the rest of the executives, you dutifully follow along.
His expression is unreadable as he looks down at you, violet eyes swimming with an emotion you’ve never seen in them before. He lifts his hand to wipe away one of the tears that had spilled over your cheeks with his knuckle, and then taps your cheek twice, chiding you silently.
Do not cry here, little hime. Not here.
“You have always been so dramatic,” Mori hums just loud enough for you to hear, but the words are fond, and the corners of his lip curl up as he looks down at you. “I would not betray you. Not ever, dear.”
You look at Ace pointedly in response and then back to Mori, the man sighs dramatically and gives you a disappointed look. The nerve, you think bitterly, narrowing your eyes on him as you wait for his explanation.
“I told you,” Mori says. “I did this to protect you. I wanted to get ahold of the boy-”
“Because you have some mistaken belief that he’s a Tsushima,” you interrupt coolly. “How did you even manage to come up with that ridiculous theory?”
Mori’s eyes flicker with something akin to interest, but shifts quickly into pity—you can’t tell if it’s genuine or mocking, and you don’t know which would be worse. He must be mistaken, he has to be. You don’t think you can handle the implications of if he isn’t, of what it might mean for you. For Dazai. Your whole relationship with him. How much was manufactured for him to get information about the Port Mafia? So he could get a foothold in the organization? Get in contact with the remaining loyalists to his family?
“Sit,” he tells you, guiding you over to the seat at the right of the head of the table. “I’ll explain everything, but first… Shuji-kun, why don’t you come out and join us?”
Your breath catches at Mori’s words, gaze twisting to the side over to the door that he’d come out of. You watch as the door creaks open, and the achingly familiar sight of his face finally comes into view. You’ve missed him—you’ve missed him, and you hate this. You should be back at your apartment with him, you should have him curled up in your arms, you should be listening to him complain about how long he was stuck with the Guild.
This shouldn’t be happening. You shouldn’t be sitting at the executive roundtable with Ace’s dead body a few feet away, and Dazai entering the room, questions of his identity, of whether or not he’s been using you for information and opportunity to take back his grandfather’s legacy.
You hoped that Dazai would enter the room angry, irritated by the kidnapping and the accusations, but you don’t think you’ve ever seen Dazai look like this before. He looks a mess, fidgeting, brown hair matted to his forehead, dark eyes wide and swirling with emotion. When he seeks you out, they’re pleading, imploring, like he already knows that whatever is about to be said is going to be bad for him.
He looks… frazzled. Nervous. Confused.
He looks guilty, and you know that Mori is telling the truth.
How much of this was a lie? All of it?
Your throat feels uncomfortably tight, gaze sliding from Dazai back to Mori.
“Tell me.”
Who are you, Dazai Osamu?
———
Despite his body being wracked with a strange sense of guilt, Dazai pushes open the door to enter the room where he assumes you’ll be waiting. You’re not the only one there sitting at the table—there’s five… no, four others—but Dazai can’t help the way he immediately seeks you out. He recognizes his mistake instantly. That highly unwelcome, and highly misplaced, guilt amplifies the moment his gaze meets yours and he sees how crushed you are by all of this. His face twists into something that he knows condemns himself more. and from the way you instantly look away from him, directing your full attention to Mori, he knows he has.
Now, you won’t meet his eyes at all.
Dazai sits stiffly across from you to the left of Mori. Nakahara Chuuya is on his opposite side, glaring holes into the side of Dazai’s head, but he can’t drag his gaze from you. He’s never seen you like this before—even back at the beach house when you’d been so close to breaking down under the weight of everything on your shoulders, you’d held yourself together as best you could.
You’re unraveling now; he can tell you’re still trying to hold yourself together, but it’s as good as trying to pick up water with your fists, your emotions spill out through the cracks carved into the walls you used to hide yourself behind. Mori hasn’t even begun talking, yet your breath is unsteady and your eyes are swimming with emotion; your fingers are still wrapped tight around the grip of your gun, and Dazai is very acutely aware of Ace’s dead body slouched over the table not even a few feet away.
And you won’t even meet his eyes.
Maybe it’s a good thing, he realizes, because Dazai isn’t sure what you might see if you do. You clearly didn’t like what you saw the first time. He just feels so guilty, and he doesn’t even know why he feels guilty because he’s not-he didn’t do any of what Mori implied. He didn’t use you, he didn’t know who you were before meeting you, it wasn’t all some scheme to try to take over the mafia. That’s ludicrous—he’s a literature student at YNU, not some gang lord. He just-
He loved you. Loves you. No ulterior motives. No strings attached.
“I said tell me,” you snap when Mori doesn’t immediately begin talking. “You love talking, so why are you holding back now? Tell me, or I’m leaving.”
Dazai feels a bit sick to his stomach when you say ‘I’ with no implication of taking him with you. He tries to get you to look at him again, silently pleading with you to just spare one glance in his direction, but you’re irritated now. He can see it in the way your fingers flex around the gun, knuckles whitening and finger twitching on the trigger—it’s pointed at the woman sitting next to you, who is very acutely aware of the fact from how stiff she is.
“Do you remember the night we took over the Port Mafia, dear?” Mori asks her, voice a low hum.
“What kind of question is that?” you answer tightly. Your lip curls up in irritation, Dazai can see you become more and more antsy and angry—he’s never seen you so out of control before. “Of course, I do.”
“And you, Shuji-kun?” Mori turns his attention to Dazai and he wants to spit in his face—his name is Dazai—but his voice fails him when he sees the way your face twists at the sound of the unfamiliar name. He stares at Mori instead, hating how amused the man becomes at his silence. “I’ll take that as a no, allow me to refresh you.”
“Eight years ago, a coup was staged against your grandfather’s regime,” Mori says, and Dazai feels like he’s being studied under a microscope. All eyes are on him now—even yours, but now, he can’t bring himself to look at you. He doesn’t know what he’ll find, and he’s scared it’s going to be something he doesn’t like. “Your grandfather was mad, killing civilians and mafiosos indiscriminately, something had to be done, and nobody was willing to do it, so we did.”
“We had to wipe out the whole family, and any loyalists. I was fourteen when I killed someone for the first time. She was a girl my age—the previous boss’s grandaughter…”
Dazai’s gaze drags over to you. You’re staring ahead now, gaze listless and expression eerily blank like you’re slowly starting to realize what this means. Dazai hasn’t come to terms with it yet, because if even a little of what Mori is saying is true then…
“We wiped out the whole bloodline and as many loyalists as we could,” Mori continues, “or we thought we did, at least. My dear hime was who I sent to kill the heirs, I trusted in her to make it quick and painless. We didn’t realize one of the grandchildren were missing until it was too late—he wasn’t in his bedroom, apparently liked to wander around at night because he couldn’t sleep. His mother was able to swoop in and get him out of the estate before our men took over the building… Tsushima Shuji, the youngest of the previous boss’s grandsons. Does this sound familiar yet, Shuji-kun?”
He has the best view of the night sky from an alcove on the fourth floor of the estate—his grandfather’s floor. It’s where he likes to go when he can’t sleep at night, and ever since his cousins and siblings started fighting over their grandfather’s legacy, that’s been just about every night: half because of fear now that things have started escalating to violence, half because he’s not even sure why he’s still here.
His knees are tucked tight to his chest, arms wrapped around them and head resting against the cool glass as he looks up at the stars. He hears a commotion happening somewhere downstairs, but there’s always a commotion happening at the estate, so he thinks nothing of it. He submerges himself in the darkness instead, letting his mind float away as he stares up at the sky—it’s the only time he’s able to relax, escape from the shadows of his own mind.
He’s not sure how long he sits there admiring the night, time passes immeasurably when he’s lost in the stars—he’s only snapped out of it when he hears feet slamming against the ground in his direction. He stiffens, eyes wide, wondering if another one of his cousins has finally turned to bloodshed as the way to inherit their grandfather’s legacy, but instead his mother turns the corner, her smooth face contorted in a type of panic he’s never seen on her before.
“Mothe…” he starts to say, confused, but he doesn’t even get a chance to finish the word, gasping as his mother grabs his wrist and yanks him off the cushioned seat in the alcove.
“Shuji, we have to go,” she gasps, “we need to get out of here. It’s not safe.”
He stumbles after his mother, struggling to keep up with her quick pace and longer legs. Her grip was painful, nails digging into the bandages around his wrists, right into the fresh wounds they covered. He grimaces in pain, breathing heavy as he follows his mother down the hall, assumingly toward the steps near his grandfather’s room.
“What’s going on?” he asks. “What about Bunji? Akane? T-”
His mother chokes over what sounds like a sob and his eyes widen—he’s never heard his mother cry before.
“There’s no time,” she chokes out, “we have to leave without them. We-”
They turn a hall, she skids to a stop and-
“It seems that it does… Allow me to continue then,” Mori hums, drawing Dazai out of the memory. He sounds unbearably amused, and Dazai would be angry if he wasn’t so shaken. He pulls his hands off of the table to rest them in his lap to hide the way his fingers are trembling. “Your mother was able to hide you from us for half a year, I warned her that she wouldn’t be able to for long and since she didn’t share your grandfather’s blood, promised to spare her life if she gave you up to us, but she refused. She tried to take you out of the Kanagawa Prefecture, but our men were catching up to her, and she took… drastic measures to ensure we couldn’t track you down. That I’m sure you remember.”
“Mother,” he whispered, staring up at the rope, her limp body, gaze trailing down to the kicked over chair. “Mother, I don’t… why did you…”
He takes a step closer. A step back. Another step closer. He reaches out, fingers brushing the white nightgown she’d worn the night before while getting him settled in bed, but he snatches them back instantly like he’d been burned, clutching his hand to his chest.
He’s not breathing, he realizes when his lungs start to burn. His eyes sting painfully, unable to draw his eyes away—unable to even blink—is it a nightmare? Is he hallucinating? She sways—sways like when she used to distract him when he was settling into a depressive episode by putting on music and forcing him to spin with her in the kitchen, sways like the wind chimes she keeps outside because the house doesn’t feel homely enough without him, sways-
“Shuji! Shuji, get away from there!” The voice that calls to him is familiar—Aunt Kiye? Why is she here? “God, I tried to get here earlier. Nee-san, forgive me.”
Aunt Kiye grabs his wrist, yanking him away from his mother, dragging him out of her bedroom and down the hall. His voice is hoarse as he screams, he doesn’t know what he’s screaming, if he’s even screaming anything intelligible. He doesn’t stop until he’s out of the house and she’s kneeling in front of him, shaking him out of his panic.
“Enough, Shuji! We have to go, we can’t stay here, they’ll be here soon,” Aunt Kiye shouts at him, expression twisted and eyes pooling with tears that she doesn’t let spill over. “We need to go, and we-we need to change your name, change everything. I promised I would hide you, I-”
“We can’t leave her there,” he argues, voice shrill. “I don’t understand, why did she do that? What did I do? It was my fault, It was my fault, wasn’t it? It-”
Aunt Kiye doesn’t answer his question. She looks bitter, angry, hateful. “We have no time. We have to leave,” she whispers, dragging him to the car despite his protests. She continues talking, more to herself than to him, but the words make his chest cave in. “I told her not to get involved with that family. Their blood is black, cursed. Everyone knows nothing good comes from associating with those people.”
His fault, he realizes, breath becoming thin and shallow. It’s his fault, his blood, his fault that his mother-
“Yes, quite the unfortunate scene we walked into,” Mori says dismissively. “She was smart for it though, she never would’ve survived a night with our sweet hime interrogating her. You should see what she did to that despicable journalist. Of course, she wasn’t as fine-tuned with her ability back then, but that would’ve been at your mother’s expense—her first few attempts at conditioning were quite… unfortunate for her test sub-”
“Enough,” you spit out, interrupting him. Dazai wants to believe that it’s because you can see how uncomfortable he’s getting, but he’s not even sure that you care. He’s not even sure you remember he’s in the room. “Get to the point. You think he’s the Tsushima kid we missed—that doesn’t prove shit. It doesn’t mean-”
You don’t finish what you’re going to say, but you do look at him, and Dazai’s breath catches when his gaze finally meets yours again. He can’t tell what you’re thinking—the expression on your face is entirely indecipherable, something caught between being accusatory and guilty. Dazai doesn’t know if he’s going to make it out of this room alive. Even if by some miracle, you decide to believe him, there’s a good chance that Mori will order his death anyway, and he’s not sure if you’ll pick him over the Port Mafia.
That being said, Dazai doesn’t even know if he wants to make it out of here alive. His brain is fogged with memories that he locked so deep within him that they never should’ve resurfaced—every time Mori speaks, Dazai’s recalling something new, something awful, something that proves that he���s every bit the freak people have always claimed him to be. Every bit as bad. Every bit as wrong. Not like other people. A monster whose mother killed herself because of him, a monster who's been cursed since the day he was born.
“... blood is black, cursed… nothing good comes from associating with those people.”
More than that, he doesn’t see how the two of you are going to be able to come back from this, and that scares him more than anything. You’re the only good thing left in his life, and he doesn’t think he’ll make it without you, but he doesn’t think that after all of this things are just going to work out. You killed his siblings. His cousins. And yeah, Dazai was never close to them—they thought he was too quiet, too strange, all of the things that the other students at school whispered, his family was the first to—but… they were still his family, and if Dazai had been in his room that night, he would’ve been just as dead at your hands as the rest of them.
You killed his family. You would have killed him. The Port Mafia is the reason his mother killed herself, the reason why he walked into her bedroom and saw her hanging from a fan. The Port Mafia is the reason his aunt hated him so much that she couldn’t even bear looking at him, the reason why he was left to die in Suribachi City.
Would you ever be able to get over the guilt of that? Would Dazai be able to accept it? You had a heavy hand in ruining his life, is it enough that you saved him years later? He doesn’t know, he’s hardly even processed it, he just knows that he has to cling to what little he has left, dig his nails in and not let go even if it makes you choke on guilt, even if it makes him sick with shame. He won’t let go.
“So impatient,” Mori sighs. “Your aunt hid you for almost another half a year, but she wasn’t able to move out of the Yokohama area. She did well though, I’ll give her that. We had our best trying to find you, but she was very careful. It was partially our own fault that we didn’t get our hands on you back then—some loyalists to your grandfather snuck under our radar, told her when we were closing in on the two of you. She got rid of you before we got to her… but we did get to her. Kouyou-kun was the one who handled her, if I recall it got quite… messy. I can’t imagine how it must feel knowing that your mother and aunt sacrificed themselves to protect you only for you to throw it all away in an arrogant attempt to reclaim your grandfather’s legacy.”
Dazai doesn’t even zero in on the last bit of what Mori says because he’s too busy trying to wrap his head around the rest of it. Aunt Kiye didn’t… die for him. Aunt Kiye hated him. He remembers that clear enough—he remembers how she could hardly stand to look at him, he remembers the way she was always so cold and rough with him, he remembers-
“You have to go, Osamu.” Aunt Kiye is shouting at him, and he’s sitting in the passenger seat of her car. He doesn’t move, he thinks maybe if he sits still enough, she won’t see him there and won’t make him leave. “Osamu, get out of the car and go, we don’t have time! They’ve found us.”
The name is still unfamiliar—he’s not used to it, and he doesn’t know if he likes it, but Aunt Kiye insists that Tsushima Shuji is dead and that name can never be uttered again. She gets mad when he doesn’t immediately answer to it, tells him not to let his mother’s death be in vain, and that’s usually enough to get him to stop being stubborn over it.
“Osamu, go!” She grabs his bicep hard to try to get his attention, but he flinches and squirms out of her grip, still not responding to her. He can’t remember the last time he’s spoken—he thinks maybe since they left the cabin that morning. “You-”
Aunt Kiye sounds angry now, but he can’t bring himself to look at her. It’s only when he hears her unbuckle and feels her start reaching over him that he starts to panic. He reaches up to grab her bicep, trying to stop her from grabbing the handle of the door to open it, but she’s stronger than him. He’s hardly been eating lately, and he’s never been particularly strong—he was always the smallest among his siblings.
It takes no effort for her to bat his hands away, pushing open the door and unbuckling his seatbelt. He struggles against her as she tries to push him out of the car, and she’s still speaking—shouting at him, begging him, he thinks she might be crying too, but he can’t even tell. His mind is fogged with panic and fear—he doesn’t want to be alone in Suribachi City, he doesn’t want to be alone at all. He wants to stay with Aunt Kiye even if she hates him because he doesn’t want to be alone.
Eventually, Aunt Kiye wins the fight—even with him fighting tooth and nail, she manages to push him out of the car. He hits the ground hard, gasping when he lands poorly on his elbow. He’s stunned for a moment by the shock and pain, and Aunt Kiye takes the chance to toss out a backpack from the back seat and close the door behind him, locking it quickly.
“No!” His voice is raspy from lack of use over the past few months. He scrambles to his feet and tries to pry the door open but can’t. Aunt Kiye won’t even look at him, she stares ahead as she switches the car into gear and he slams his hands against the window. “Aunt Kiye! Aunt Kiye, don’t leave me here! Don’t leave me here, please, I’ll be better, I’ll do better, just don’t-”
He stumbles back as she pulls the car away, falling when he trips over the backpack onto the asphalt, scraping up his hands and forearms. He’s not sure how long he sits there staring after where the car disappeared waiting for her to come back for him.
She doesn’t.
She didn’t die for him, Dazai thinks again, nails digging crescents into his palm. She didn’t die for him, she couldn’t have. Dazai won’t believe it. Aunt Kiye hated him, she abandoned him in Suribachi—none of this can be true. It can’t. His mother killed herself to be free of him, not to protect him; and Aunt Kiye abandoned him because she hated him, not to save him.
That’s the truth. It has to be. They couldn’t have died for him—for him. It doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t want to remember all of this—he was better off thinking that they hated him, that they wanted to be free of him.
He can feel you looking at him now, but Dazai is back to being unable to look at you. He’s staring down at the glass table looking at his reflection, his eyes are wide and dark and far too black—he looks warped, inhuman almost. His expression is blank, none of the turmoil within him is reflected on it, and he doesn’t even understand why. He thinks it’s probably just making him seem more guilty.
“We figured she left you somewhere in Suribachi City, but we weren’t able to track you down,” Mori says flippantly. Dazai wants him to stop talking, but he has a sick feeling things are only going to get worse from here. “Not until you ended up with Oda Sakunosuke, at least, we…”
Dazai’s ears ring at his old friend’s name. Mori is still talking, but his words become a distant buzz. Everything starts coming back to him at once—his time alone in Suribachi City, the weeks he spent rationing the little food he had, getting the shit kicked out of him by some low rung gang who stole his mother’s ring from him. He remembers giving up, questioning the point of his own existence with a detached logic that left him with only one answer—there was no point to his existence, so he was as good dead as he was alive.
He remembers seeing on a sign that it was the eve of his fifteenth birthday, and he remembers dropping himself in the bay during a storm, hoping that the tide dragged him so far beneath the surface that he’d never see the light of day again.
He remembers waking up the next morning to an unfamiliar face at his bedside, brows knit in disapproval and lips turned down, and he distinctly remembers feeling put out by a stranger looking at him that way.
“What’s your name, kid?”
Dazai couldn’t remember anything but the name Aunt Kiye had drilled into him over and over again the past few months.
“Dazai Osamu.”
“Hm. Oda Sakunosuke. You got a family, Dazai?
Odasaku brought him in.
Odasaku saved him.
The doctors said he’d been dead for almost three minutes when Odasaku found him washed up on the beach—said his memory might return over time, but it might not—but Dazai didn’t even care, because Odasaku brought him in. He gave him a roof over his head, food to eat, and a reason to live. He sent him to school so he could feel like a normal kid his age. He played board games with him and didn’t even care when Dazai was a sore loser and quit mid-game when he realized he wouldn’t win. He humored Dazai when he faked being sick because he didn’t want to go to school. When Dazai was going through bad depressive episodes, Odasaku would sit with him silently and write his book so Dazai never felt alone. Odasaku introduced him to Ango and they were-
They were his friends.
Family, maybe.
They were all he had, and they were all he needed.
And then-
“We were the ones who killed him.”
Dazai’s gaze drags up from the table to focus on Mori. The man’s lips are curved into a cruel smile, his eyes are sharp, and Dazai is moving before he can stop himself. He lunges across the table, but Mori doesn’t even flinch because Nakahara Chuuya grabs the back of his shirt and yanks him back down into his seat.
“You-” Dazai spits, voice raspy and angry.
“Don’t look at me like that, we were trying to get to you,” Mori says casually as if the words don’t shatter Dazai’s entire world. “We would’ve loved to have Oda Sakunosuke amongst our ranks. His death was unfortunate. Collateral damage. He was an assassin for a long time—one of the best in the world. He was pretty much unkillable, his ability allowed him to see six seconds into the future. I never understood how our sniper managed to get him that day, but now I do. He saw you getting shot with his foresight and tried to pull you out of the way, but your ability is nullification, so when he touched you to save you, he damned himself. In those split seconds when he was pulling you to safety, he couldn’t see the future, and couldn’t see the bullets aimed for you that lodged into his chest instead.”
Dazai can’t do this anymore. He tries to push himself up to his feet but his legs are numb and uncooperative, and he can’t move his hands or arms. Mori’s lips part to continue speaking but Dazai can’t do this, he can’t hear anymore of this. He’d always known in his heart that Odasaku’s death was his fault even if he couldn’t remember much about his mother and Aunt Kiye and their desperate attempts to hide him from the Port Mafia. He’d known, but hearing it-hearing the confirmation, it’s too much for him.
Before Mori can say anything, Dazai is startled from his spiraling thoughts when you stand up so abruptly that your chair goes flying back. Your expression is haunted and you’re not looking at him again, but Dazai is glad for it, because he thinks he’s about to throw up.
“I… I need a minute. I just need a minute,” you say shakily before fleeing the room into Mori’s office so quickly that you almost trip over the chair you knocked over.
The room is silent in your wake, and after a few impossibly long moments, Mori stands to follow you into the other room. The three Port Mafia executives left in the room don’t say anything for a moment, and Dazai is just trying to breathe. He’s trying to breathe and process what Mori just said, but he’s failing miserably at it.
It’s the woman, Kouyou, who speaks first.
“She’s going to kill me for knowing about this,” she says simply, sparing a glance down at the dead body on her opposite side. “I’ve never seen her like this before. Even when Chuuya-kun went missing for a few days, this…”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have conspired against her,” Piano Man sings, looking entirely unperturbed. “I mean honestly, after what the previous boss did to you, I would’ve thought you’d be more sympathetic. Silly me to think you aren’t a cold-hearted bitch.”
Dazai tries to pay attention to what they’re saying, he tries to ground himself with the conversation happening so he can forget the feeling of Odasaku’s blood all over his hands, staining his clothes, smeared on his face. He tries to replace Mori’s echoing words with what they’re saying but he can’t.
“We were trying to get to you.”
“It has nothing to do with sympathy,” Kouyou snaps, but she does look ashamed. “It’s a security threat, it’s bigger than love. This boy could spell the end of everything we’ve built.”
“She won’t kill you, Ane-san,” Chuuya finally speaks up, his knuckles are tight around the armrest of the chair he’s sitting in. “I’ll talk to her, I just-”
“When he touched you to save you, he damned himself.”
“Chuuya-kun, she almost killed you,” Kouyou says so dryly that the words almost don’t even register to Dazai, but when they do, they’re the only thing that effectively draws him from his spiraling thoughts. He looks at Chuuya sharply to see if what Kouyou said was true, and his eyes widen when he only grimaces and looks down. “You and Piano Man. She didn’t even hesitate before pulling the trigger on Ace. She’s unstable right now, there’s no talking to her.”
“But she didn’t,” Chuuya says tightly. “I’ll talk to her, but first…”
Chuuya looks at Dazai so suddenly that he almost wants to snap his head away and ignore him, but he can’t. The ginger studies Dazai so intensely that it makes him want to crawl out of his own skin.
“Did you know?” Chuuya asks, voice low. He’s angry, Dazai can tell from the way a dark red color starts to flicker around his hands, but he’s trying to keep it together. “Tell me. Did you know who she was and use her to get closer to the Mafia for revenge? I’ll spare her the pain of having to put a bullet through your fucking head and kill you myself right now. Did you know who she was and purposely-”
“No,” Dazai interrupts, voice hoarse. “No. I didn’t-I didn’t know.”
Chuuya stares at him for a few seconds, studying him like he doesn’t know if he actually believes him, but after what feels like an eternity, he finally shakes his head and looks away, rubbing his face with his hands.
“Fuck, this is such a mess,” Chuuya breathes out, voice strained. “Fuck. She-”
Chuuya doesn’t finish his sentence because the door to Mori’s office reopens and you step back into the room, Mori at your heels. Your eyes are red, but your expression is withdrawn now, void of the tumultuous emotions that had been raging across it just a few minutes before. You settle back in your seat. Your eyes flit over Dazai like he’s not even there before focusing on Mori.
Dazai suddenly has a bad feeling.
“I’m not quite sure how you escaped us after that,” Mori continues where he left off, and Dazai is so sick of the man’s voice that he almost wants to rip his own ears off. “Probably Sakaguchi-san from the SDUP, I recall him and Oda-san being close… but that brings us to the present, doesn’t it? Four years later, you stumble into our lovely hime… Come, dear, let me tell you my running theory, and you tell me how accurate I am, yeah?”
Mori is looking at you now, eyes glittering as he waits for your response. Dazai has his own serious issues with the man, but he thinks it’s sick the way he’s enjoying your clear discomfort and increasing distress. Your jaw tightens a bit, but you nod, signaling for Mori to speak. Dazai’s nails dig into his pants as he waits for Mori to continue. Neither of you look at him, and Dazai’s lips part to speak so he can preemptively deny whatever Mori is about to accuse him of, but he can’t push a single word out.
“Your first meeting with him wasn’t by chance. A cafe, maybe… a bar?” Mori offers, watching your face carefully for a reason. You look away at the second option, and the man’s lips curve up. “A bar, then. One you frequent, I bet. The one in Hodogaya-ku, perhaps? Your first meeting, but not Shuji-kun’s first time seeing you. Ui Koutarou—his journalism professor at YNU—wrote his first article implicating the Mori Corporation’s connection with the Port Mafia in February of this year, around a month before rising fourth year students register for classes. Shuji-kun, naturally, has been following anything related to the Port Mafia closely, so when he sees a class being offered in the fall by the same man who has been openly targeting the Port Mafia, he sees an opportunity and signs up for the class.”
No, Dazai tries to say. His lips form the word, but the sound doesn’t come from his lips. No. No, no, no, no. You look haunted suddenly, and Dazai remembers the argument he had with you during the government event in Tokyo. How cold and withdrawn you’d become. How when he confronted you next, you accused him of working with Ui Koutarou and blackmailing you for money. Mori is reigniting all of the initial fears you once had.
“Ui-san has had his sights set on you for quite a while, dear. You don’t need me to tell you that, you’re very well aware of the man’s hatred of you… When Shuji-kun started classes in the fall, Ui-san roped him into his plans, and you became his project. That wretched man had many documents on you. I had the Black Lizards raid his apartment after we captured him—most were harmless, detailing places you frequented and people seen around you, but when Shuji-kun became involved, he started using that information to manufacture meetings between you. I imagine that after you met him that first time, he started appearing around you rather regularly. Bump-ins at that cafe you like in Minami-ku, on the streets—he even started renting an apartment on property that we own after he realized the opportunity he had with Ui… he’s only been living there since the summer, you know?”
His last apartment wasn’t close enough to the school, Dazai wants to argue desperately. He’d been lucky that a cheap apartment opened up in Hodogaya-ku before the semester started—he’s been trying to get one since his first year. It has nothing to do with-
Dazai suddenly feels nauseous again, everything is spinning around him—he still hears Aunt Kiye screaming at him, he still hears the creaking of the rope his mother hung himself on, he still hears Mori’s confirming that Odasaku’s death was his fault. And now this, and you’re not looking at him again, and he’s not saying anything, why isn’t he saying anything? Why isn’t he denying this?
“He attached himself to you quickly, didn’t he?” Mori asks rhetorically. “Too quickly, I’m sure you had doubts—not even your ability makes people reliant on you as swift as he became. How long did it take for him to start prying for information? Trying to make you slip up and implicate yourself with the Mafia? Confess yourself as an ability user?”
The night of the earthquake when you showed up at his apartment, he remembers dizzily. He started pressing you on your political opinion because he remembered Ui saying that all of the criminal syndicates in Japan are going to do whatever it takes to prevent the military bill from passing. But he wasn’t… doing it to prove anything? He just wanted to know more about you, he was curious, he was finally putting the mystery that you are together. It wasn’t malicious—he just wanted to know you. That’s all it ever was, he’s only ever wanted to know you.
“When did you tell him about your ability? More about our organization? Around when the Guild started making their move in Yokohama, I’m sure. He never told you about his ability until his hand was forced. In fact, I’m willing to bet he lied and said he didn’t know he had one, but tell me, do you really think an assassin of the caliber of Oda Sakunosuke would not realize his ward had an ability that negated his own? That he wouldn’t be trained in how to use it… Most importantly, if all of this wasn’t a scheme of revenge—if he really did love you—then why did he never get rid of the flash drive that contained the proof that his journalism house published? The proof that got you thrown in prison?”
You’re crying.
Dazai’s throat swells when he sees the tears silently tracking over your cheeks. At once, he realizes that he’s never seen you cry before; he itches to reach over to you, to grab your hand or wipe away the tears. He doesn’t—partially because he doesn’t think he could move if he tried, but mostly because he knows that he’s the reason you’re crying.
He wants to assure you that none of this is true. He had nothing to do with the Guild—they kidnapped him for fuck’s sake. He didn’t know about his ability, he didn’t even know Odasaku was an assassin. And he was just… careless with the flash drive, and he shouldn’t have been, but there was always so much going on, and he was so new to having someone in his life that really loved him that he was quick to bask in it and forget everything else.
He doesn’t assure you of anything, instead he watches as Mori reaches out to do what Dazai wants to do. He brushes away your tears and turns your face to look at him, a disgustingly sympathetic look on his face.
“I know you were eager to believe that someone could love you without your ability at work influencing them, dear,” Mori murmurs, “but people like us will never find a love that pure. There will always be other factors at work sullying it—wealth, revenge, threats. You understand now what this was, don’t you?”
No, Dazai wants to scream at you. He does love you, this wasn’t some ridiculous revenge plot for family he hardly remembered until this meeting, that-
“I do.”
Dazai finally is able to make a noise when those two words leave your lips. It’s weak—something caught between a wheeze and a whimper that sounds too loud in the silent room. He feels eyes on him—Chuuya and Kouyou’s in particular. Not yours. You stare down at the table.
“Ogai-dono,” Kouyou clears her throat. “If I may… perhaps we could… send the boy away. Abroad. Ensure he never comes back to Japan so we don’t have to risk him coming back and disrupting things.”
“We could give him a seat at the table,” Chuuya interrupts, ignoring the wide-eyed look both Kouyou and Piano Man give him because of the radical idea. “We’re down an executive anyway. We tell people who he is, that he supports the new regime. It’s what you wanted to begin with, right, boss? You wanted one of the grandchildren to legitimize the passing of power. We could make it work.”
“It’s too risky.” Mori isn’t the one to speak, Piano Man is, but he doesn’t look happy to do it. “Maybe back then it could’ve worked, but the Port Mafia killed his friends and family, and hunted him down. Too much has happened, he’s an unpredictable variable that we can’t risk. We can’t trust that he’ll just accept it all, that he won’t work behind the scenes to take us down. Giving him any leverage in the organization is the last thing we should do, but what Kouyou-”
“Leave him alive and we risk everything we’ve built falling apart—a civil war igniting, Yokohama being caught in the crossfires and all of our foreign enemies crawling into the city to reap the benefits of our fall. It’s one life or hundreds—thousands, even,” Mori interrupts, voice cool. He turns his gaze onto you. “I trust you know what has to be done, dear.”
Your expression is resolved, a heavy emotion in your eyes that tells him your answer before you even speak. “Yeah, I know.”
You stand up, and Dazai knows that it’s over. When you look down at him, it’s with a type of apathy that makes his stomach twist—he’d rather hate than nothing. His lips part to speak but he pauses when you shake your head slightly, so subtly that he almost doesn’t even notice it.
“Get up,” you say flatly, and then glance at Chuuya. “Chuuya, will you…?”
“Yeah,” Chuuya replies without you even needing to finish the question. His voice is hoarse, he looks more than a little disturbed. “Yeah. Of course.”
Chuuya rises to his feet and then grabs Dazai’s bicep to pull him up to his feet too. Dazai doesn’t even have the heart to give him a dirty look in response, following along as he leads him out of the conference room and into the hallway.
For a split second, Dazai really believes that maybe you’re just trying to fool Mori, you made him think you were taking Dazai to have him killed so that you can get him out of here safely, but even once you’re out of the conference room without Mori’s eyes carefully watching you, you don’t look at him.
“Get one of the clean up crews up here,” you tell one of the guards waiting in the hall instead as you frown at your phone, typing out a quick text to someone. You pointedly ignore how alarmed they are by the offhand comment to click on the button to the elevator.
When you look back at the two of them, it’s not to look at Dazai—it’s to look at Chuuya. The two of you are having a conversation, Dazai can tell that much, and he thinks that maybe he should be putting in the effort to figure out what’s going on, what you have planned, but he’s just… tired. He’s not even sure if he cares what happens to him anymore, and he figures the worst case scenario is that he dies at your hands, and of all of the ways he could go, he thinks that would be the most preferable, because at least you would be the last thing he saw.
He doesn’t try to speak again until the three of you are in the elevator and the doors have closed.
“I-”
“Stop.”
Dazai is startled by the sharpness in your voice. He looks at you, but you’re still not looking at him, your lips are curved down as you stare at your phone, typing furiously. He glances up into the left corner of the elevator, noticing the cameras—maybe that’s why, he thinks a bit unsurely, deciding to stay quiet until out of the building.
When the elevator doors open, it’s Chuuya that urges him to keep walking by nudging his shoulder. You don’t touch him, don’t look at him. There’s nobody in the main entrance of the building, which Dazai thinks is a bit odd, but he bites back any comments he might have when he sees a black car waiting outside the building.
The doors to the building open at your approach, and Dazai inhales the crisp, fresh air greedily, not even having realized how stifled he’d felt in that room with Mori, you, and the other Port Mafia executives. He thinks maybe that you’ll sit in the backseat with him and he’ll finally be able to talk to you, but you don’t. You open the door to the passenger seat and sit there without even sparing him a glance.
Dazai’s throat starts to swell again, stopping in his tracks as he stares at where you disappeared behind the car door. Chuuya pushes him forward, not letting him linger for long—he opens the door to the backseat and pretty much manhandles Dazai into the car before taking a seat next to him.
He recognizes the person at the wheel—Albatross, your friend. He’s driven you and Dazai around before, every time Dazai gets in the car with him, he makes a sharp comment aimed to embarrass you in some manner. This time, he doesn’t even look at Dazai through the rearview mirror. He just puts the car in gear and starts driving.
A pit starts to form in Dazai’s stomach. Dazai tries to initiate conversation with you again now that you’re outside of the Port Mafia headquarters within closed quarters, nails scraping against his pants as he decides what he wants to say.
“I d-”
“Stop.”
When you cut him off now, Dazai’s stomach flips. He stares at the side of your face, trying to understand why you won’t even listen to him. You can’t actually believe what Mori was saying, you can’t. You were faking him out, tricking him into thinking you fell for it—you had to be, you have to be. You can’t possibly believe him.
“You won’t… even hear me out?” Dazai asks you quietly.
“There’s nothing left to say.”
Oh, Dazai thinks to himself, withdrawing. He stares at you for a moment before turning away stiffly, expression tight and strained as he stares out the window, watching the buildings pass by as they get closer and closer to the ports.
You believe it, he realizes dully. You believe that it was all just a scheme. You believe that everything was manufactured, that he used you for some fantastical revenge plan, that he never loved you. You believe it.
But it doesn’t make sense, he thinks desperately. He doesn’t understand how you’re not seeing through it, and if you are, why aren’t you at least giving him some hint? He should try to say something again—he knows that, but he finds himself unable to. He’s a smooth-talker, quick on his feet, but never when it comes to you—since the day he met you, he’s been fumbling over words awkwardly, but now it’s costing him everything. He finds ash in his mouth preventing him from salvaging anything he might’ve had with you.
Dig your nails in and cling, he reminds himself, but his nails have become rounded out and blunted from how long he was scratching at his pants and skin while remembering all those memories he locked away. He tries to dig his nails in and cling, but his voice fails him and his nails can’t even find purchase on your skin, you slip out of his hands as easily as an eel.
He’s going to lose you. He might’ve lost you already.
Dazai thinks that’s worse than the realization that he really might be about to die.
The car comes to a stop much quicker than Dazai had hoped, and he stiffens when you waste no time before getting out of the car. He makes no move to join you outside, and Chuuya sighs next to him.
“Get out,” Chuuya says flatly. When Dazai doesn’t budge again, Chuuya snaps, “Get out of the car-”
“-and go, we don’t have time! They’ve found us.”
Dazai draws his knees to his chest, breath becoming a bit labored as his aunt’s voice echoes in his ears. He doesn’t even realize that Chuuya has gotten out of the car until Dazai’s car door is pried open. For a split second, he confuses the executive with his aunt as he’s yanked out of the car—he’s fourteen again and being abandoned by the only person he has left, and he can just barely bite back the “don’t leave me here!” that almost spills from his lips as his knees hit the ground hard.
Dazai is instantly hit with a thick scent that makes him gag. It’s noxious, almost entirely unbearable, clogs his throat to the point he almost struggles to breathe—a blend of rot, acrid chemicals, and something he doesn’t recognize, but it’s sickeningly sweet. As he pushes himself to his feet, he notices you pass your gun over to Chuuya, but in that moment, Dazai is more concerned with figuring out where he is, and when he does, his stomach drops.
The dumping grounds by ports stretch endlessly under the heavy, overcast sky. Mounds of trash rose like grotesque hills patched with scraps of torn plastic and suspicious lumps that Dazai doesn’t have to get close to know what they are. The ground is uneven and treacherous—a mix of sticky mud and sharp shards of discarded glass and plastic, and pools of murky water shimmering with oil slicks.
It’s disgusting, and Dazai has a feeling it might be his final resting place.
He trails over to the side of the road and his gaze tracks down to the ground directly below him. It’s not a far drop, hardly a foot or two, and certainly less gross than some of the other parts of the area, but that’s a low bar to meet. He tears his eyes away from the scenery around him to look back at you, lips parted to speak but he doesn’t say anything.
You’re leaning against the front of the car, watching him with an expression that Dazai can’t describe. Sad, maybe, resigned. Chuuya is back in the car, from what Dazai can tell, he's still fiddling with your gun—he wonders if this is his way of letting the two of you say goodbye in private.
“I do love you,” Dazai says. His voice cracks over the words. “No ulterior motives. No schemes. I just loved you. Love you.”
You don’t say anything for a moment, eyes drawing from him somewhere over to the side like you’re looking for something, but after a moment, you look back at him, your face a little softer than it was before.
“I know,” you tell him quietly. “I know, Osamu.”
Dazai’s lips part to say something back—he doesn’t even know what he wants to say, because confusion fogs his mind. If you know, then why-
Why are you doing this?
He doesn’t get the chance to ask. The car door opens and Chuuya steps back out, he passes your gun back to you and Dazai sees you subtly slide something into his hand too, but he can’t tell what it is. You sigh as you look down at the gun before looking back up at him again, he holds his breath as you make your way closer to him.
His lashes flutter shut, expecting to feel the cool barrel of the gun against his forehead, but his breath hitches when he instead feels the familiar warmth of your hand cradling his cheek. Your fingertips are flaked with Ace’s dried blood, but Dazai still leans into your touch, eyes sliding back open to look at you.
Up close, your expression is twisted with regret and… is that fear? Dazai can’t tell, he doesn’t care, he’s more preoccupied with memorizing the image of you before he runs out of time to.
“Forgive me,” you whisper so faintly that Dazai almost doesn’t hear you.
“I do,” he replies just as softly.
Your face crumbles as you look away. You take a step away from him, and your hand drops down from his face. Dazai instantly mourns the loss. You let out a heavy, shaky breath, sparing one last look down at the gun in your hand, one to Chuuya who stands half a step behind you, and then you look at Dazai again.
“Forgive me,” you say again, this time as you lift the gun—your voice is raspy, breath uneven.
Your fingers tremble so violently that the whole gun is unsteady, but Dazai doesn’t even care to look at it, gaze focused on your face instead.
“I do,” Dazai repeats.
You pull the trigger.
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1. Rick for sure, I like everyone in the family tho ! My favorite specific Rick's are Toxic(because he's awful and very very short sighted, idk i just think he's interesting in a sopping wet pathetic way.) and Flesh Curtains era(because let's be real how am I going to look at a 30 something grungey drunk and not be obsessed. thats like, some of my favorite people irl.)
2. I don't think it matters! Probably space beth, but eh 🤷♀️
3. No not canonically. I think it'd be really fun tho and I like all the theories. Ricks do mess around tho, hes a horndog and the citadel exists, a huge conglomeration of Him, i think it happens more often then it seems to.
4. Tilda. I will not elaborate.
5. Errh idk! A lot i guess. Theyve said before they want the like, classic adult cartoon run time(think futurama, family guy, simpsons), so as many seasons as humanly possible if the writers get their way. I think they step on their own toes a little since they seem to toggle between wanting to be an episodic sitcom, but ALSO a serial scifi thriller. I dont think theyve done badly in that regard so far, but theres absolutely aspects of both that are suffering because of the other's presence.(plot inconsistencies n that kinda thing.)
6. Smash, it would be a bad decision for both of us, but itd be fun !
7. Does the galactic federation count? Probably not since its an organization, but for sure that one. Super interesting stuff u can do with space bureaucracy(bc im boring) and state-sponsored violence. But as for an individual, I really really like Beths mytholog, that whole concept is really cool, and her design is hella badass lol. Also i guess Toxic Rick is a villain too !
8. oof I've tried to figure this out and i dont think i can narrow it down, but i really like Rattlestar Ricklactica, Vat of Acid, and a Rickle in Time.
9. uhh idk the one with the giant incest baby? I didn't enjoy Story Train either tbh. I don't think any of the episodes are like, unwatchably bad, but theres absolutely a few I skip when i rewatch the show.
10. I don't care about story lord like, at all. hes just. deeply uninteresting. Not a huge fan of Mr. Poopybutthole, but i think i just thought we were reminded of him too often.(i liked the intervention episode well enough tho)
11. Oh man this is hard to answer cuz hes just done So Much. Like, guys a shithead. The reckless disregard for innocent bystanders is pretty bad. I think it sucks when he orchestrates situations in which morty has to lethally defend himself, and then totally disregards his feelings(which is literally all the time lmfao). like, the kids 14. His casual manipulation of Beth is super fucked, cuz he knows how much he means to her and he exploits that. yeah idk, guys just a pos all around lol
12. Dated question, luckily no! I think the new voice actors are great :3
13. All the rnm blogs i follow are badass as hell. idk how to pick ill prob edit this l8r
14. Can I say rick without sounding like a total loser. mentally ill, substance abuse issues, ruled entirely by emotions, hedonistic while paradoxically engaging in self-harm/hatred. nihilistic(silly flavor). freaked out by commitment/attachment. the party friend(as opposed to someone you invite for brunch or to meet ur parents). also science is cool.
15. the entire "...couldn't let a dead snake be dead even after it bit his ankle, next time stay in the fucking car!" monologue. and the "a vat of fake acid are you Dying of Dementia?!" fight.
16. i havent finished my brackets yet ill get back to you.
17. same as above.
18. man idk probably. i dont actually watch it in a way that supports them(financially) anyway, but that would suck balls cuz its a fixation of mine.
19. done to death probably but mortys "come watch tv?" quote is my fave. it reads to me as incredibly reassuring. optimistic nihilism. like, "nothing means anything, nothings a big deal, lets chill and enjoy it while we can." ya know? like dying is the same as before you were born, and Everyones gonna do it, but we're here together right now, so lets eat pasta and get a little drunk.
20. i know hes doing his own thing but can i be snowball. hes cool and empathetic and capable of growth, also i wanna see how the dog utopia is going.
20 SHORT-ANSWER* RICK AND MORTY QUESTIONS FOR YOU:
*You can write long answers, if you'd like! Feel free to skip questions, too!
Who is your favourite Rick and Morty Character?
Which Beth is the clone: Domestic Beth or Space Beth?
Do you think that Rick-C137 and Rick Prime were previously romantically involved?
What do you think would be a good name for Birdperson and Tammy's daughter?
How many seasons do you think Rick and Morty will eventually have?
Rick C-137: smash or pass?
Who is your favourite Rick and Morty villain?
Your favourite Rick and Morty episode?
Your least favourite Rick and Morty episode?
Who is your least favourite Rick and Morty character?
What is, in your opinion, the worst thing that Rick C-137 has ever done?
Do you think that Rick and Morty will be affected substantially by having to change the voice actor for Rick and Morty and a bunch of other characters?
What's a good Rick and Morty blog?
Who is the Rick and Morty character that you relate to the most?
The funniest Rick and Morty bit/scene, in your opinion?
Best Rick and Morty season?
Worst Rick and Morty season?
Would you stop watching the show if Justin Roiland returned?
Your favourite Rick and Morty quote?
If you had to be one member of the smith family in the next season, who would you want to be?
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How was Jaiden born?
Oh, I know it may sound weird for a large amount of people, but Jaiden was born as a normal baby does. Ragatha went through pregnancy and childbirth.
I know this feel a bit unsettling for some people, but I didn't want her to be an AI or NPC. She also has a counterpart in human world, if I ever make something where they all escape from the circus.
Thanks for your ask. If you have any other questions, I would be glad to answer
#bunnydoll#the amazing digital circus#tadc#ask box#bunnydoll fankid#bunnydoll shipkid#tadc Jaiden#tadc bunnydoll
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So I made a Taurus x Sun fanchild and since @gummysunnybear wants to know more here some info
- His name is Asterix.
- He looks a lot like Taurus but personality wise he's a lot like Sun but still has emotional traits of Taurus.
- No one was pregnant! Asterix was born from Taurus and Sun mixing each other's magic and or life force together to make Asterix. (still figuring this part out)
- When Asterix's horns were growing he hit his head everywhere. Mostly on chairs and Lunar (lol). One time Asterix hit his crib one to many times and Sun put little tennis balls on his head. (Asterix did not like that)
- Asterix is technically speaking the younger brother of Dazzle.
- Here's a run down on how the family found out:
After Sun and Taurus mixed each other's magic together it caused a huge power outage (they were in the forest as to not hurt any people nearby). The family noticed that Sun and Taurus were gone and they decided go look for them.
Gemini was the first one to find them and found Taurus sitting on the forest floor, a very tired and weakened Sun laying against Taurus with his arm around him and in Taurus' other hand was a blanket bundle.
Gemini tries to ask Taurus what had happened but Taurus gestured for them to be quiet and looked down at the blanket in his arm.
And in that blanket was little baby Asterix, sleeping peacefully in his father's arms.
So small and frail but yet held such unimaginable power.
(I'm a bit to tired to write how the family part)
This is all I have for now hope you liked Asterix and if you have any ideas on how he was born tell me!
If you have any questions please put them in the comments or in my ask box! I'll happily answer!
And if you'd like you guys can make fan art on Asterix! Or write about him!
Edit: I AM MAKING TAURUS A GOOD DAD! AND YOU CAN'T STOP ME!
#willow shitposts#willow rambles#the sun and moon show#the lunar and earth show#tsams#sams#tlaes#laes#tsams sun#tlaes taurus#sun x taurus#taurus x sun#laes taurus#tlaes gemini#laes gemini#sams sun#tsams fanchild#sun and moon show#lunar and earth show
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hey! i've always believed in early Larry but recently have fallen down a rabbit hole about babygate and am convinced. i'm just stuck on a few points and was wondering if there are any theories.
1) what happened on the day of the 'birth'? if he is brett's child born from surrogacy, how did they get briana's name on the birth certificate and either get the baby into the hospital without alerting staff there that briana was not pregnant OR have had a non-pregnant briana stay in hospital for days. what are the theories on how they orchestrated the hospital stay logistically? surely it would've been easier to claim she wanted a home birth. also not sure if they rented a room in the hospital and just kind of camped out there?
2) is there any evidence of Louis being a present father to Freddie? the main reason i started to question the media narrative was that it seems like Louis rarely sees him and in AOTV it almost seemed awkward, like the child didn't really know him. adjacent to that, is there any evidence that Eleanor, who was supposedly with him for FIVE years post-babygate, ever met his son? after all the fuss about danielle vs briana and danielle mentioning her by name in interviews, not even a fluff article about step mum life and loving him? it seems like they forgot to account for parts of the narrative - on the surface, it seems fine but it falls apart on inspection.
thanks from a reborn larry :)
Aww, a reborn Larrie, how cute! Hahah welcome back!
1- I have two tags you might want to check out to see if they answer your questions: BIRTH CERTIFICATE and SURROGATE. But to sum it up, I don’t think it's as complicated as it seems. We don’t actually know what’s on the official birth certificate, no one does. What we saw was a copy of it, and it had a lot of inconsistencies. Personally, my guess is that the birth certificate was never even filed at the state level, and the names of the legal parents (Brett and Tammi) are likely on it. If Louis and Briana’s names are there officially, it would follow the typical process for surrogacy pregnancies, and I fully believe Freddie is unrelated to the surrogate. So the intended parents would be listed on the birth certificate regardless, so there were no special logistics involved at the hospital or anything like that.
2- Louis’ involvement in Freddie’s life started around 2021, and that's undeniable, even if you believe he's Freddie’s biological father. It’s interesting how some people claim we can’t know whether Louis was present for Freddie or how often they saw each other, but then they use it as proof when they are together later on. There’s definitely been a noticeable shift in Louis’ behaviour... he completely ignored Freddie’s existence for years. He never spoke about him. And then, all of a sudden, they're all over the place together, and Louis can't stop mentioning him. So, there’s at least something odd about it. As for Eleanor, the only time we saw them in the same place was at Louis’ LA show, which was being recorded for AOV. They were kind of in the same booth but on different sides, so there was some overlap, but that’s the closest interaction we’ve seen. Babygate became more consistent after Louis and Eleanor broke up and before they got back together in 2017. During all their time together, there was no babygate, basically!
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This an interesting angle. I've never been particularly taken with trying to determine True Art from False Art on the basis of specific qualities of the piece.
(I did ok-ish but not exceptionally on the AI art quiz, probably with a slight bias for misattributing human pieces as AI ones - like many other respondees, I found the Impressionist pieces hardest to distinguish, since they very much play to the AI's strengths.)
There are many different ways you could describe "art" as a human activity, I'm sure there's a post somewhere where I make a list, but a really big one is its communicative function - one purpose of art is to somehow pass on some aspect of our 'inner world' to another person, through a lossy and limited channel.
That a signal can be easily imitated doesn't mean it doesn't carry contextual information. For example, I could ask a yes/no question of enormous emotional importance - "should I take the shot", "has the baby been born", "will you go out with me", "am I a good girl" - and be answered with either "yes" or "no". It would be trivial to generate a machine which randomly substitutes for this communication - that's basically all a magic eight-ball is.
The amount of information that can be contained in an image of a given size and colour depth can also be calculated. For example, the number of fullscreen images that would fill my current monitor at 8 bits per channel would be 2^(3440 × 1440 × 24) ≈ 3 × 10^35788372 - about 15 megabytes uncompressed. It's a number that seems astronomically huge, though effectively the amount of information is much less than you'd calculate since all the likely pixels are correlated. The same goes for other art forms, like novels (encoded as, say, UTF-8 strings or PDFs) or pieces of music (encoded as sound files, MIDI, MuseScore files, etc.). The exact number is complicated, you end up getting into Kolmogorov complexity and shit like that, but the point is that it's finite.
If we want to claim that all the information about a human life that Hofstadter describes (grief, despair etc.) is in there somehow, we're claiming that this finitely many bits is adequate to capture all the nuances of a human life. I don't know that that's true!
This, however, doesn't really seem to align with how we interact with art. Human production and exchange of "art" is a social act - I would describe it as being continuous with "play". When we observe a piece, we are opening a communications channel - at least a one-way channel. The person on the other side sends some information into the channel, and we process it somehow.
Since it is a lossy channel with limited information, we must infer various things about the other mind on the opposite side of it. If I show you an artwork that I made, we might have a conversation about how I did it, why I made the choices I did. If I feel something looking at the work, I might imagine that you felt something similar, and designed the piece to evoke it intentionally (a guess that will often be wrong but sometimes still productive). I might also look at what specific choices you have made, compare them to the choices others have made in the same medium, etc etc.
We form these inferences on the basis of experience - the more you learn about making art, the more you learn to appreciate other peoples' art and vice versa. And we project these experiences, usually plausibly, onto other artists.
(Perhaps I am saying all art is in a sense performance art? Seems like a tasty soundbite, though I'm not fully sure I wanna commit to it.)
I'm not meaning to claim that a computer couldn't simulate this kind of 'how did you make it' interaction too. This line of argument was anticipated by Turing in his original 1950 paper on the 'imitation game' that someone links in the comments above, where he describes a poet undergoing a viva voce test interrogating their word choices, and argues that a computer might be programmed to give convincing answers to such a test. I imagine he's right - for a paper written in 1950 he makes some surprisingly sharp predictions for how future AIs might be made, such as the idea that an AI could be built to be 'educated' like a child. (He also thought the evidence for ESP is 'overwhelming', but hey, can't win 'em all).
A lot of the context around art would be quite easy to forge, had you a mind to. For example, suppose I go to a film screening, and someone is introduced as the director so we can all clap them. Did they really direct it? I don't know! You could totally send an actor. Less conspiratorially, if someone says they made an artistic choice for x or y reason, they could be lying about it, or misremembering, or most likely oversimplifying a complex and inscrutable process down to a simpler story.
At some point you have to take something like that on trust, or else simply accept that being lied to about it is part of the game you're there to play! (c.f. Oshi no Ko.)
Anyway, the sudden arrival of a new process that can produce, at least sometimes, near-indistinguishable output to various types of communication, throws a spanner in the process. If we're feeling uncharitable, we could call it something like a DDOS attack, stuffing the channels with spurious inputs that don't fit our design assumptions. I think that goes too far, though. AI gen doesn't preclude communication, but it does need we need to think differently about what is being communicated.[1]
So to consider that last question, if art is like a game, could you train an AI art to produce art that is meaningful to humans only by 'playing against' itself, like AlphaGo Zero? I don't think this is so likely. The rules of Go are strict and well-defined; the rules of what humans find meaningful are inseparable from the history of interacting with other humans, which is why art constantly evolves. Training an AI on existing human artworks is training it to compress and interpolate/extrapolate that dataset; training it to optimise for "making novel art that expresses something in a form that its interlocutor could understand" requires it to be interacting with someone.
You could imagine a training process with an "artist" AI and a "critic" AI (a sort of more sophisticated GAN, where the adversary is optimising not to distinguish human/AI art but to judge it on aesthetic grounds) - but how would you get the "critic" AI? Whose taste would it express?
Admittedly, the developers of image generators are constantly refining their models in response to users, so they are being optimised to appeal to someone, not just interpolate existing artworks. But I think it would be very hard to remove humans from the equation entirely. And the present means of providing feedback to the AI are very crude.
For an AI to learn from interacting with other AI (and the world), I feel like you'd need a whole new process that isn't about minimising loss against input-output pairs. Romantically, I imagine it would be closer to how humans learn from life, but I don't really know what will 'work' in the end.
below: some other remarks that were excised from the main post.
[1] We can view AI image gen as another channel for communication between humans, with its own set of inferences to make. If someone shows me a picture they've generated with AI, there's no point asking why they painted this bit that way, but I might approach them more as a curator and ask why they chose this generation over others, or how they went about prompting it.
The AI artists who go to the trouble of finetuning their models with LoRAs for a specific end goal, or using more involved processes with multiple stages of generation, probably have most to 'say', either through the work they generate or how they'd discuss it. (I find it very endearing when someone trains an AI to serve up a hyperspecific fetish.) And the more I know about how AI images are generated, the more I can probably have a productive conversation.
In this light, the "problem" of AI is mostly one of deception, insofar as it tries to look like something else and thereby tell a misleading story. That's probably a big reason why why it brings the rancour it does, although it doesn't explain all of it. It's not (usually) a forgery of a specific human's work, but it is designed to forge spurious communications in this channel in general, so the channel is 'noisier' - and this could be thought to undermine many of the contexts, i.e. the operating narratives and social games, which are why we exchange art in the first place. Over time, we'll presumably end up renegotiating the 'games', and spawning new ones, as humans always have.
And of course, the issue of provenance and plagiarism in art - particularly when prestige and money get involved - long predates AI and is full of all sorts of bizarre contortions when you look at it closely.
More intriguing is whether there is some possibility for "real communication" between humans and AIs - that is, could there be an AI output that does respect the 'rules of the game' in some way. This is harder to imagine! Like, if you ask why we aren't solipsists, we could point to how much we resemble other humans and say, all things considered, seems very unlikely we aren't the same type of entity. But I only know 'what it's like to be' a human. Conversely, while I know a reasonable amount about how AIs work, the attention mechanism and latent-space vectors and so on (thanks 3blue1brown), the analogy isn't so clear anymore, so I don't even know how I'd determine whether there even is a 'what is it like to be' under all the 'noise' of communications aggressively optimised to fit the patterns of something a human might say. If there is, it's probably very alien to all of my experience.
Ironically I feel like the current model of 'AI', which teaches us to regard any generated output with suspicion of having 'nothing behind it', would make it harder for any 'real', agentive, subjective-experience-having AI to make itself known to us. But perhaps it's good that we're forced to sharpen our criteria of what we're looking for out of these things.
Anyway, all of this is probably just idle imaginings, because nobody can figure out how to make anything like enough money to justify the exorbitant costs of training and operating AIs, so at some point this whole speculative bubble will go up in smoke and whatever AIs continue to be in use will likely remain about as good as they are today, or stupider - at least until the next 'AI summer' when a new paradigm emerges.
Thinking about that that "slop accelerationism" post, and also Scott's AI art Turing test.
I also hope AI text- and image-generation will help shake us loose from cheap bad art. For example, the fact that you can now generate perfectly rendered anime girls at the click of button kindof suggests that there was never much content in those drawings. Though maybe we didn't really need AI for that insight? It feels very similar to that shift in fashion that rejected Bouguereau-style laboriously-rendered pretty girls in favor of more sketchy brush work.
But will we really be so lucky that only things that we already suspected was slop will prove valueless?
As usual with AI, Douglas Hofstadter already thought about this a long time ago, in an essay from 2001. Back in 1979 he had written
Will a computer program ever write beautiful music? Speculation: Yes, but not soon. Music is a language of emotions, and until programs have emotions as complex as ours, there is no way a program will write anything beautiful. There can be "forgeries"—shallow imitations of the syntax of earlier music—but despite what one might think at first, there is much more to musical expression than can be captured in syntactical rules. There will be no new kinds of beauty turned up for a long time by computer music-composing programs. Let me carry this thought a little further. To think—and I have heard this suggested—that we might soon be able to command a preprogrammed mass-produced mail-order twenty-dollar desk-model "music box" to bring forth from its sterile [sic!] circuitry pieces which Chopin or Bach might have written had they lived longer is a grotesque and shameful misestimation of the depth of the human spirit. A "program" which could produce music as they did would have to wander around the world on its own, fighting its way through the maze of life and feeling every moment of it. It would have to understand the joy and loneliness of a chilly night wind, the longing for a cherished hand, the inaccessibility of a distant town, the heartbreak and regeneration after a human death. It would have to have known resignation and world-weariness, grief and despair, determination and victory, piety and awe. In it would have had to commingle such opposites as hope and fear, anguish and jubilation, serenity and suspense. Part and parcel of it would have to be a sense of grace, humor, rhythm, a sense of the unexpected and of course an exquisite awareness of the magic of fresh creation. Therein, and therein only, lie the sources of meaning in music.
I think this is helpful in pinning down what we would have liked to be true. Because in 1995, somebody wrote a program that generates music by applying simple syntactic rules to combine patterns from existing pieces, and it sounded really good! (In fact, it passed a kind of AI turing test.) Oops!
The worry, then, is that we just found out that the computer has as complex emotions as us, and they aren't complex at all. It would be like adversarial examples for humans: the noise-like pattern added to the panda doesn't "represent" a gibbon, it's an artifact of the particular weights and topology of the image recognizer, and the resulting classification doesn't "mean" anything. Similarly, Arnulf Rainer wrote that when he reworked Wine-Crucifix, "the quality and truth of the picture only grew as it became darker and darker"—doesn't this sound a bit like gradient descent? Did he stumble on a pattern that triggers our "truth" detector, even though the pattern is merely a shallow stimulus made of copies of religious iconography that we imprinted on as kids?
One attempt to recover is to say Chopin really did write music based on the experience of fighting through the maze of life, and it's just that philistine consumers can't tell the difference between the real and the counterfeit. But this is not very helpful, it means that we were fooling ourselves, and the meaning that we imagined never existed.
More promising, maybe the program is a "plagiarism machine", which just copies the hard-won grief, despair, world-weariness &c that Chopin recorded? On it's own it's not impressive that a program can output an image indistinguishable from Gauguin's, I can write such a program in a single line:
print("https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gauguin,Paul-Still_Life_with_Profile_of_Laval-_Google_Art_Project.jpg")
I think this is the conclusion that Hofstadter leans towards: the value of Chopin and the other composers was to discover the "template" that can then be instantiated to make many beautiful music pieces. Kind of ironically, this seems to push us back to some very turn-of-the-20th-century notion of avant-garde art. Each particular painting that (say) Monet executed is of low value, and the actual valuable thing is the novel art style...
That view isn't falsified yet, but it feels precarious. You could have said that AlphaGo was merely a plagiarism machine that selected good moves from historical human games, except then AlphaGo Zero proved that the humans were superfluous after all. Surely a couple of years from now somebody might train an image model on a set of photographs and movies excluding paintings, and it might reinvent impressionism from first principles, and then where will we be? Better start prepare a fallback-philosophy now.
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Throughout the years, Danny and Ra's get into fights. Unfortunately for Ra's, Danny's a biter. Unfortunately for Danny, biting immortals are never a good idea. Especially when your own DNA is beyond messed up
Imagine the look on Ra's face when they guy he likes fighting shows up with a baby in hand and says, "congratulations, you're a father"
Repeat it two more times because Danny just doesn't learn
Ohohoho, now this is quite fun. And this could be completely new children, or, this could be the three Al Ghul children. Which if it is? Is hilarious. And hey, Dusan even has Danny's white hair and green eyes!
But seriously I love this. Logically, Danny should learn to not bite, in fact? He knows how to fight, and can do so without biting. He's just also a petty little shit who will go feral when fighting this one asshole [insert relationship here].
Even more hilarious if Danny shows up throughout time too. And it's not like they exactly explain to anyone on the outside of their [insert relationship here], which definitely leads to so many misunderstandings and rumors.
Love the idea if this is even a semi-normal ghost thing. Just, usually the mixing of ecto is done on purpose, and not usually having to be worried about happening via blood. But Danny? Is a halfa, meaning that he is half human. And if he bit anyone else, it would probably have no effect, except for the fact that the human mouth carries quite a bit of bacteria and en ecto-contaminated one more so. So for anyone else, biting is an actual good option, but Ras? Also ecto-contaminated via Lazarus Pit.
Which is a different type of ectoplasm, like comparing saltwater to freshwater, but is still ectoplasm. If anyone else bit anyone else, it wouldn't happen. But no, Danny just has to have the habit of biting his immortal sparring asshole of a rival-buddy. And said buddy better be fine with co-parenting otherwise he's taking child support.
#ask answered#deadly decisions#dcxdp#dpxdc#prompt?#prompts#immortal morally gray men & their trio of children#Unless Dan & Ellie are also there in which case#immortal morally gray men & their quintet of children#unless it's completely new children in which case behold their eight or so kids#*WHEEZE* Can you imagine if the kids ever ask how they were born#I mean this is some sort of godly/demigod creation myth shit#I bet Danny has fangs and I bet he uses them to his advantage when biting someone#He can get away with biting someone as a strategy via the fact that he can take out a solid chunk of flesh#Ras (holding baby): .... do I wish to know how#Danny with full judgement despite it being more of his fault: It takes two to tango bitch#adult danny#mom danny
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How must Misako have felt when she realized that the best chance she had of keeping her family together was to tear them further apart first?
#sorry rewatching early seasons again I’m. ill. I’m ill#I’m ill about her realizing she’s got to leave lloyd bc it wouldn’t be fair or safe to drag him around the world looking for answers#I just keep picturing some horrible moment of clarity where she realizes her baby is the prophecy boy#how big of a pit of dread and fear and panic and desperation must have opened up in her gut#did she feel it the moment he was born? when he first opened his eyes? when he took his first steps? when he spoke his first words?#I just. rhghrhhh. god. god. the legos got me#halcyonia#ninjago#Ninjago Misako#misako montgomery garmadon
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26. freebie question, a good while back (before the party split) you mentioned that a possibly interesting ship would be Imogen/FCG. Obviously canon has not gone that direction, but I'd love to hear your thoughts on Imogen and FCG's relationship :D
It is interesting because Imogen hasn't interacted with FCG a ton. I think that friendship sort of fizzled out once FCG started believing in their personhood and particularly after they began building a relationship with the Changebringer. Imogen was not terribly supportive of that (possibly jealous, or possibly just not sure how to engage with it) and so there really hasn't been much.
They are really interesting as parallels, actually, though actually pretty much everyone in the party except for Orym and Chetney fit in this to some degree. Like Imogen (and Fearne), FCG was given particular powers by a megalomaniacal entity, for the purpose of furthering those goals. I think Predathos grants somewhat more agency to loyal Ruidusborn than Aeor entrusted FCG with, though that is to be seen, but there's something very tragic, in my mind, from Imogen's perspective, about how FCG was the tool of a destroyed empire, and so while he still carries those scars and consequences, he actually does have the freedom to be his own person. FCG has to manage a serious chronic condition, essentially, but they don't have missions, and unless some of the wilder theories are right (and they could be, though I have my doubts) the ones who did this to them are long dead. Is this her future? Will she be left with dreams and telepathy even if they defeat Predathos? Will they be the upsides (controllable sorcery powers) or the downsides (nightmares, uncontrollable sorcery powers)? Why did FCG get to just sleep through the hard part and she has to fight her way out?
It really is a fascinating thing about the party: Fearne and FCG were designed to be who they are (though Fearne's upbringing at least was her own). Ashton was partially created in a cult ritual (though it remains unclear if they were the intended recipient or merely the one it happened to stick to). I don't think Imogen was planned a la Fearne, but I do wonder if Predathos or the Weave Mind did specifically target Liliana to ensure her daughter would also be Ruidusborn. While the nature of Laudna's sorcery abilities hasn't come up (and, to be fair, a lot of sorcery abilities in D&D are just like "well that happened to your baby, idk what to tell you") she was used by Delilah for that as well. So much of this party shares this with Imogen and FCG but I think they are the most extreme examples (Fearne is mostly unaffected physically/mentally though obviously learning of her origins is unsettling and upsetting, and Ashton and Laudna's situations mostly hurt them and not as often others, though Laudna's is increasingly a crapshoot) and I think as this became apparent and as they both grew more comfortable with who they were they sort of lost that connection.
They do still share a lot of powers though and I'd love to see them talk again - Laura and Sam always play off each other well, and those earlier interactions where they both tried to read each other's thoughts, or coordinate probing Ashton or Ollie's mind, or the first casting of Shared Dream were all delightful - but they have drifted apart since.
#answered#ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2#critical role#character ask meme#maintagging this one because of the meta and because I don't think there's anything particularly salty or spicy in it#sorcery as congenital conditions...can we explore this. like not directly physically that could get iffy real quick but just like#the idea that some number of babies are just born with this. can we test for it in utero#(i think the people who dislike the ashari methods of not having ruidusborn are oddly conservative for this reason specifically)#(but i digress)#i've also talked a lot about how so many BH friendships remind me of like. some notable non-lasting friendships in my life#which is also a separate discussion#imogen temult#fcg
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its always pissed me off that the same people who think every fucking woman with a uterus OWES the world children and is a failure if they dont reproduce are the SAME FUCKING PEOPLE who rant and rave about immigration and birth rates in other countries
#why do you think (*cough* white *cough*) some babies are more worthy and valuable than others born to poorer mothers explain now :)#i know the answer i just want to see if you'll say it out loud and realize how fucking racist you are. go on.#lets talk about the control a person should have over their own internal fucking organs. Can you even get more personal a choice than that?#lets talk about mental health and pressuring women to become mothers when they dont really want to and how that trickles down to the kids#lets talk about resources for mothers and children and how fucking expensive kids are and how impossible it is to be a single parent#caring about children means caring about the poor ones too you fucking idiots. even if you 'dont like kids' they should be getting FED#absolutely insane that 'why should we feed kids? for free??' is a statement that wont get you publicly torn to shreds by wild dogs#beyond the literal body horror nightmare that is having your body hijacked bc OTHER people think you're obligated to birth a child#reproductive rights
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👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑
DO YOU LIKE MY WRITING? — accepting !!
★ ★ —
thank you kindly !! i've been meaning to send a few more asks your way, but they've been hard to pick since kakunsa is tricky to pick for since she's all the way in another universe. i'll keep trying though!
#✦ … and that’s how babies are born! ✦ 「 answered 」#sonchiildren#( sparking zero does have me appreciating goten more! )
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every time i talk about disability stuff to other disabled people, especially online, i have this irrational thought that they’re going to think i’m lying and maybe i really AM lying and i’m just believing my own lies, all because like i’m trying to explain shit about my birth defects that i don’t remember the minutiae of because so many of the surgeries for them happened when i was less than a year old, or just because i have so many separate issues that it sounds like a 13 year old making an oc on deviantart and giving it the world’s most convoluted backstory. or because i am having Symptoms but doctors either can’t agree on a diagnosis or genuinely just don’t know what the fuck is happening
#am I a vacterl baby? probably#my mom always suspected it and so have some doctors but we’ve never gotten a clear answer#was I born with a significantly malformed inferior vena cava or was it damaged? who knows#why did I need orthopedic braces as a kid? i actually don’t remember but I sure did Have Them#I always feel like I’m gonna get Questioned and just not know how to answer
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quick sketch i did of nishiki in jann's outfit because I was listening to shuffle play while drawing this and gladiator came on.
i forgot how to draw abs so i just didn't lol
#nishikiyama akira#yakuza#digital art#yakuza fanart#rgg#rgg fanart#sketch#im not that happy with this but im somewhat happy! baby steps :3#will i ever draw anyone other than the nishikis? ... uhhhhhhhhhhh good question the answer is no#jk i might especially since im currently playing lost judgement and i might get more brainrot#im still kinda fascinated by kuroiwa like how can you be around 40 to 50 and still have such a baby face????#honestly id have thought him to be in his 20s or 30s but i think he's bound to have been around for longer than that#fun fact: if my calculations are correct hamura is two years older than nishiki#also fun fact: at the time of Yakuza 0 sugiura hasn't even been born yet or conceived#now i feel really compelled to start a table detailing various people's ages at various times
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So... Legend's very existence is to spite the anti-supers law, then?
Yeah pretty much XD
You can imagine how stressful the birth was, looooot of emotions going on there. Sometimes Malon wonders if he has invisibility as a power for a reason.
#I mean look at it from Time and Malon’s perspective#Legend became illegal basically the moment he was born#how scary would it be bringing a baby into a world like that?#answers from the floor#anon#Incredibles au
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maybe the answer to "what should Twi's backstory be" is "well what would be the funniest for Time to respond to Rusl casually mentioning where he found the kid?"
#unfortunately the answer still remains 'all of them'#Time: if you dont mind my asking how did he come to be in your care?#Rusl: well i was passing through a burned out ranch on my way into hyrule#Time: oh i see where this is going#Rusl: and i met a scholar on the run with his two sons- the younger had just been born with some kinda birthmark on his hand that freaked#him out real bad so after a bit of explanation i took the kid home with me.#OR#Rusl: and i met a woman there descended from the old ranchers. helped her fix a cart and get back to town. she runs a bar there. that night#a poor woman went into labor alone. didn't make it but there was the baby and Telma couldnt care for him so i took him home#OR.#Rusl: i thought it a bad omen and i was right- there was need in hyrule for a resistance. i met a man there- a royal tutor- and well. long#story short i ran out of the castle nursery with a stolen baby. dont tell link that.#OR..#Rusl: and weirdest thing was in that burned out ranch there was a golden wolf. it gave me the chase back into the woods and there was a bab#just left out there on a tree stump#OR...#Rusl: and there was a stalfos on the ranch. he just handed me the baby and said his name was link. Uli never believed me but#OR....#Rusl: met a girl there later at the ranch- her family used to own it- and we got along well enough. He takes more after her than me#Time (responding to literally any of those): W H A T#sorry (isnt sorry) been thinking about twilight...... and loz in general today
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