#if you like magical realism this is FOR YOU

[kashverse]

bedtime stories are essential for a child’s growth—they bring families together, foster creativity, and, occasionally, make your children dream a little too wildly. but when your husband is involved, bedtime stories become something else entirely.

sukuna, with his eyes gleaming under the dim nursery light, cleared his throat. babykuna, bundled up in a nest of plush blankets, stared up expectantly, little hands clutching a well-loved, slightly drooled-on copy of the little mermaid. the two feline overlords of the household, mr. pickles the maine coon and baby the orange tabby, sat at the foot of the bed like judgmental literature critics. “alright, brat, let’s get this over with,” sukuna grumbled, flipping the book open with unnecessary force.

“once upon a time, there was a little mermaid who was a total dumbass.”

babykuna giggled. sukuna smirked, feeling accomplished.

“she fell in love with some random guy she saved from drowning, which—let’s be honest—probably should’ve been a red flag for him. but, whatever, she went to a shady sea witch, literally signed away her voice, and—”

mr. pickles gave a loud, drawn-out meeooow. baby, not one to be outdone, stood up and began kneading at sukuna’s arm aggressively, a clear sign of feline displeasure. babykuna’s giggles faltered, little brows furrowing.

the great and mighty sukuna was being heckled. by a pair of cats. “what?” he scowled. “this is realism. the brat needs to know that—”

baby lunged. tiny paws, soft but full of silent rage, landed squarely on sukuna’s chest. mr. pickles followed, his sheer weight nearly knocking sukuna off balance. “oh, you read it then, you furry little dictators!” sukuna barked, trying to reclaim his spot, but it was too late—the feline coup had begun. babykuna, sensing an opportunity, reached out with tiny hands.

“mamaaaaaa!”

within seconds, you were summoned, the true ruler of bedtime stories. with a smug smile, you took the book, settled in beside babykuna, and began reading in a voice so soft and mesmerizing that even the cats curled up, content. sukuna, defeated, crossed his arms and sulked. “i was getting to the part where she turns into sea foam,” he muttered.

“and that,” you said, flipping a page gracefully, “is why you have been overthrown.”

meanwhile, in the nanami household, peace reigned. yuuji was already buried under his blanket, head resting on your shoulder as nanami turned a page in james and the giant peach. his voice was smooth, perfectly paced, as if he were personally trained by roald dahl himself.

“…and then, the peach broke free, rolling down the hill, gathering speed—”

you sniffled. nanami paused. “are you crying?” he asked, a single brow raised.

“it’s just… the way you narrate…” you wiped your eyes dramatically. “it’s so good.” yuuji, completely unbothered, snored into your arm.

nanami sighed, closing the book for the night. “if i recall correctly, you made me read matilda three times in a row last week just because you liked my narration.”

“and i regret nothing,” you declared. yuuji snored louder. nanami shook his head and leaned over to press a kiss to your temple, then to yuuji’s forehead. “alright, lights out.”

meanwhile, at the fushiguro household, bedtime negotiations were in full swing. “megumi, mama’s got an early mission tomorrow,” you reasoned, tucking him in. “so just one story tonight, okay?” megumi crossed his arms, unimpressed. 

“papa’s not home yet.”

“he’s working.”

“so that means i get two stories when he’s back.”

you sighed. your son was already a little strategist. giving in, you started with your usual—a story about a brave princess who tamed a dragon with kindness, something soft and magical. by the time you finished, megumi’s eyes were drooping. perfect. he was almost asleep.

then, the door creaked open, and in walked toji. megumi perked up immediately. “papa, story!” toji groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “didn’t mama already—”

“two stories. it’s a rule,” megumi declared. toji gave you a look, and you simply shrugged. you weren’t the one who raised a bedtime tyrant. so, toji sat down at the edge of the bed, cracking his neck before launching into a very different kind of tale.

“aight, kid, so there was this guy—real nasty piece of work, always hid out in this old warehouse, right? well, guess what? i—uh, i mean, our hero, batman—had to take him out before sunrise.” your eyes narrowed.

“toji.”

“what?” he grinned. “i’m censoring it.”

megumi, already half-asleep, murmured, “what happened next?” toji smirked. “our hero dodged a knife, flipped over the bad guy, and bam—knocked him out cold. then he disappeared into the night.” megumi was completely out, breathing soft and even.

toji shot you a wink. “works like a charm every time.” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “you’re not supposed to use your assignments as bedtime stories.”

“why not?” toji smirked. “keeps him entertained.”

“you’re gonna turn him into a vigilante.”

he kissed your cheek, grinning. “well, at least he’ll be well-rested for it.”

in the gojo household, bedtime stories are a prime-time production. "alright, babytoru," gojo grinned, settling into bed beside his six-year-old daughter, who was vibrating with excitement. "where were we?"

“season six, episode four!” she announced. “princess toru and the forbidden candy kingdom!”

“aaahh, yes,” gojo smirked, flipping through an invisible script. “last time on bedtime stories, princess toru was betrayed by her most trusted royal advisor—sir mochi the talking panda.” babytoru gasped.

“mochi betrayed me?!”

“tragically,” gojo nodded. “but! fear not, for your knight in shining armor—sir papa—has infiltrated the candy kingdom’s fortress.”

"did he bring weapons?"

"no! he brought the power of love and charisma, obviously."

babytoru clapped. gojo, fully immersed, dramatically reenacted the entire rescue operation, throwing in last-minute plot twists, a villain redemption arc, and a musical number (he made up the lyrics on the spot). this bedtime story series started when babytoru was four, and now, at nearly six, they were six seasons in, complete with christmas specials, crossover episodes, and merchandising potential. if gojo played his cards right, he could sell the rights to a producer friend, get an animated series going, and dedicate it all to his little girl.

"alright, that’s a wrap for tonight!" gojo declared. 

babytoru yawned, already half-asleep, mumbling, “next time, we need a new villain...” 

gojo smirked, tucking her in. "leave that to me, princess."

little did she know, next episode was the mid-season finale.

geto believed bedtime stories should be meaningful. something with moral lessons. his twin girls? they did not share this belief.

"okay, papa, one more story!"

geto sighed. "fine. but this one comes with a lesson."

the twins, already suspicious, huddled under the covers. “once upon a time," geto began, voice deep and soothing, "there were two little girls—very much like you two—who forgot to brush their teeth before bed."

the twins gasped.

"they thought, 'what’s the worst that could happen?' but then... the tooth fairy came."

the room fell silent.

"but papa," one twin hesitated, "isn't the tooth fairy... nice?"

"ha! that's what they thought! but this tooth fairy? she didn't collect teeth under pillows. she took them straight from their mouths!"

the twins screamed, clutching their toothbrushes as if their lives depended on it. that night, they slept with their toothbrushes in hand. extreme? maybe. effective? absolutely.

the family dentist was thrilled.

choso’s approach to bedtime stories was simple: classics, classics, classics. his four kids—twin girls and twin boys—were raised on a steady diet of great literature. tonight, they were rereading the great gatsby. "papa," one of the girls yawned, “why does gatsby love daisy so much?” choso sighed deeply, looking out the window as if the tragedy of it all pained him personally.

"because, my little ones," he said, flipping a page, "gatsby believed in the green light, that orgastic future that year by year recedes before us."

one of the boys muttered sleepily, "papa... you read that every time."

"and yet," choso said solemnly, "you still do not understand."

by now, the kids could quote entire passages from memory. sometimes, at school, they would just casually drop lines like, "so we beat on, boats against the current—" and confuse their classmates. one time, during a parent-teacher meeting, their teacher had pulled choso aside and asked, “mr. kamo, why do your children know the complete works of f. scott fitzgerald?” choso had simply nodded in approval.

"good," he said. "their education is going well."

[mylovesstuffs]

Somewhere Before – Wen Junhui

Two strangers meet in a café on a rainy night, feeling oddly familiar to each other. As the night unfolds, they realize they may have met before, though neither can remember when. Despite their brief encounter, both sense a connection, leaving them to wonder if fate brought them together.

Genre: non idol au, magical realism (subtle), contemporary romance, slice of life and strangers-to-something-more

Pairing: Jun x fem!reader

Content: rainy night setting, subtle mystery surrounding their past connection, a café as a liminal space, magical realism/past-life connection (implied), emotional connection beyond logic or explanation, yhe idea that some people are meant to meet no matter the circumstances, mystical suggestion rather than a confirmed reality, fated encounter

Word count: 1222 words

A/N: This is for my beloved Kae @ylangelegy ♡ Ikik, I ramble endlessly in your DMs and probably bother you way too much, but I promise it's all love. When you mentioned feeling for our c-line boys as of late, I knew I had to give you something. Started writing this around 3 in the morning as inspiration struck yet again (the photo in the banner sparked it). It’s nowhere near the brilliance of what you write—not even close—but I tried. We run anyway (￣▽￣)ノ♡

The rain hadn’t let up all evening. It came down in sheets, drumming against the pavement, spilling off rooftops, collecting in gutters that could barely keep up. The city lights blurred in the downpour, neon reflections stretching across puddles like fragmented memories.

You were soaked by the time you stumbled into the café, water dripping from your deep emerald green coat, shoes squelching against the tiled floor. The bell above the door chimed softly, and a few patrons glanced up before returning to their conversations, their coffee cups cradled between their hands.

The place felt like a moment caught between heartbeats. Dimly lit, where the scent of roasted coffee curled through the air, a jazz record spun in the background, its melody threading through the hush of weary souls seeking refuge not just from the rain, but from the storms within.

You hesitated near the entrance, scanning the room for an empty seat, when your eyes landed on him.

He sat by the window, a book open in front of him, though he wasn’t reading. His gaze was distant, lost in the rain-streaked crystal glass, fingers idly tracing the rim of his coffee cup...There was something about him that felt familiar.

You didn’t know why, but your feet moved before your mind could catch up. “Is this seat taken?” you asked, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.

He blinked, startled from his thoughts, then glanced at the other empty tables before his gaze returned to you. For a moment, he studied you, trying to place you in a memory he couldn’t quite grasp. Then, with a slight nod, he gestured for you to sit.

You slipped into the seat, shrugging off your damp coat. The warmth of the café seeped into your skin, chasing away the chilly bites of the rain. The flickering candlelight cast gentle shadows on your face, the soft glow catching the curve of your cheek and the tousled strands of wet hair that clung to your forehead.

“Bad night?”

You huffed out a small, tired laugh. “Something like that.”

The response felt heavier than they should have, but you didn’t explain, and he didn’t ask. Instead, silence stretched between you, not awkward, but contemplative. The silence was of the kind that settles between strangers who are somehow without knowing why are at ease with each other.

The rain continued its relentless rhythm against the window. You watched the droplets race each other down the glass, your thoughts drifting.

“You look familiar,” you found yourself saying.

“Do I?”

You tilted your head, studying him. The sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth, a mole just above the corner of his lip, the dark brown eyes that held a million words that you couldn't touch yet.

“Yes,” you murmured. “But I don’t know why.”

He exhaled, his gaze lowering to his book. He didn’t turn the page. “You remind me of someone, too,” he admitted after a moment. “But I can’t remember who.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, though, once again, you weren’t sure why. A strange coincidence. A mutual familiarity with no explanation. You wanted to say more, to unravel the threads of this feeling, but before you could, the barista approached with a fresh cup of coffee and a grilled chicken sandwich. He set it down in front of you without asking what you wanted.

You blinked. “How did you know—”

The barista smiled, then gestured toward the man sitting across from you.

“He ordered it for you.”

Your gaze snapped back to him.

He didn’t look at you, only lifted his own cup to his lips. “You looked like you needed something warm,” he simply said.

A beat of silence. Then, a small smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. “Thank you,” you said, wrapping your hands around the cup, the warmth seeped into your fingers.

Outside, the rain kept falling, the city moving on, unaware of the moment unfolding within the walls of the café. And for reasons neither of you could understand, you felt as if you had been here before.

-

The conversation that followed was slow, unhurried. Words exchanged in soft tones, like footprints left in the sand before the tide washes them away.

He told you his name. Jun. You told him yours.

He wasn’t from this city, just passing through, though he didn’t say where he was going. You had been here too long, though you weren’t sure why you stayed.

Deep and cliché but he asked about your dreams. You asked about his regrets. Neither of you had all the answers, but perhaps that was the point and was okay. There was something oddly weightless about confiding to a stranger in the middle of the night, in a café where time felt irrelevant, where the rain painted the rest of the world away.

You traced patterns on the tabletop as he spoke, the edges of your memories catching on something just out of reach.

And then, “I really think we’ve met before,” you said suddenly.

Jun’s fingers tightened slightly around his cup. He didn’t look surprised. He looked like he had been waiting for you to say it. “Maybe,” he said. “But I don’t remember when.”

You frowned, frustrated by the way the thought slipped through your grasp like water. “Not in this life,” you murmured, half to yourself.

He looked up then, his gaze meeting yours. Something coruscated in his eyes, a common memory neither of you could recall. A connection that had always existed, just waiting to be found.

You exhaled slowly, letting the thought settle between you. “Do you believe in fate?” you asked.

Jun was silent for a long moment. “I don't,” he admitted. “But I believe in moments like this.”

Your heart ached at the simplicity of his words. Because you understood. Some things didn’t need explanations. Some meetings weren’t meant to be questioned. Some people just found their way back to each other, again and again. No matter how many times they had to start over.

-

The café emptied as the night stretched on, chairs flipped onto tables, the barista wiping down the counters.

The rain had softened to a gentle drizzle, mist curling around the streetlights outside.

You both lingered, neither wanting to be the first to leave. But eventually, the night had to end.

Jun stood first, slipping on his coat. You followed, stepping outside together. The air was cool, damp with the scent of rain and earth. The world felt softer and quieter.

You turned to him, unsure what to say.

Would this be the last time? Or was it just another beginning?

Jun looked at you for a long moment, then, with the faintest hint of a smile, “I think we’ll meet again.”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t ask how he knew. You just smiled back, the warmth of his words lingering long after he disappeared into the night. And as the rain fell once more, you knew. Some stories never really end. They just wait for the next chapter.

The first time they met, it was a mistake.

The second time, it was fate.

Some souls are bound by threads older than time, weaving through lifetimes, destined to meet again in the spaces where memories fade and fate lingers.

[momimf1ne]

everything in-between on ao3

landoscar/4.3k words

Oscar has a pretty smile, Lando notices. It stretches all over his soft features and makes his eyes crinkle, sharp teeth poking out from underneath his top lip. Lando’s eyes narrow as he lets his gaze wander over Oscar. From his brushed back hair, over his pale skin down to the white linen shirt peeking out underneath the heavy cape. 

“Cool costume,” Lando smirks. “Very chic. For a vampire.” 

Oscar chuckles a little dryly and starts staring at his shoes. “Thanks, mate,” he says then. “I’m serious,” Lando reassures him and Oscar looks up again. “It looks good. Especially the, uh,” he loosely gestures towards Oscar’s face, cheeks reddening underneath the facepaint. “Your teeth. They look very real.”

Something in Oscar’s look shifts. Just slightly, if even. Lando thinks he imagined it, blames it on the addictingly sweet drinks and Oscar’s pretty smile. But then Oscar cocks his head, eyebrows raised. “You think so?” He asks. And he smiles, open-mouthed, white teeth on full display. Oscar even has the audacity to dart his tongue out, swipes it over the pointy canine and Lando is – well, Lando feels fucking mesmerised during all that. 

And it’s a strange feeling. Like he’s giving in to something and he’s not sure if he likes it. 

[noknowshame]

always a fun time when real life people are doomed by their own narratives. like guys you know it doesn’t have to be like this right? this isn’t a stageplay the foreshadowing isn’t real until you make it real

[crazedsmiles]

Chappell Roan moment

I love her music

[wasyago]

squeaky_toy_sound_effect.mp4

[hitlikehammers]

tremolo

…what if instead of learning clarinet or percussion, you could learn to read the music of hearts? 💕

rating: t ♥️ cw: love at first sight, car crash (off-screen), SUCH FLUFF ♥️ tags: ✨magical realism au, musician eddie munson, paramedic steve harrington, kinda soulmates (it makes more sense with the magical realism part), character study, softness

for @steddielovemonth day one: "Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet." —Plato

It was just like learning any instrument, really.

At least what they tried to convince Eddie to believe at the tender age of nine.

But it was all about finding an aptitude, apparently. Developing a talent. Fourth grade rolls around and he fucks up blowing with a reed, manages to give himself a tongue splinter. Nearly passes out on the brass. Ends up with the choir lady looking over horn-rimmed glasses and narrowing her eyes at him less like a teacher and more like a fortune teller or something, scrying what’s to come of him, like she can see through all that he is and will be, before she goes scribbling something on his little slip of paper already marking all the failed kinds of music he’ll never get to make and telling him: go to Room 011.

But no one ever goes to Room 011.

He meets a petite woman with mousy hair and clothes that look like they belong to someone else, somehow. She introduces herself as Miss L. She looks like a Miss L., so he doesn’t think any further on the point.

You will not play much, really, she tells him, and the way she talks is kinda funny, like she learned words but not from people actually saying them out loud. Eddie kinda likes it, though. The playing is only for emergencies, and if you find your True Note.

Eddie doesn’t know what most of that means, except for the fact that the whole point of trying—and failing—at all the instruments was to join the school band with something to play. So if that’s not what he’s going to learn, then what the heck is Eddie meant to be doing down here—is what he wants to ask.

He manages a little politer version of the same, his nan’d be proud. His dad wouldn’t care even if he was around and not behind bars. His uncle might be happy that Eddie’s kept his nose clean just this one time. So he figures he does okay.

But really, he just wants an answer. He was supposed to get to learn music. It was the one thing that was keeping this whole year feeling like he could maybe, maybe survive it.

It also means he doesn’t have to take the art class that’s mostly kindergarten crafts instead of real art, so.

“You will be learning music,” Miss L. answers, more patient than most grownups; “you are here to learn how to read the songs that hearts sing.”

And that is, by far, in all of his whole nine years of living, the most fucking absurd sentence that Eddie has ever heard.

——

He’d kinda thought it was a joke, when he left that first afternoon to get back before Language Arts.

Turned out: nope. It was not.

He’d maybe thrown something slightly less childish than a tantrum, when what he got was a big set of earphones and a box the size of an Easy-Bake Oven, where apparently he’d be playing some kind of recordings to start his lessons.

“Do you not wish to learn?” Miss L. asked so simply, and Eddie…

Eddie reminded himself that no matter how foolish and stupid this was, it couldn’t possibly be worse than making construction paper collages with Elmer’s glue, so.

He put the headphones on and pressed play.

——

His workbooks didn’t look like anyone else’s in band—in fact, Eddie didn’t think he was actually a part of the class band, like, he wasn’t expecting to play at the spring concert with the flutes and the trombones, anymore. When he had sheets of staves to fill out they didn’t have straight lines. He didn’t draw different circles with little flags and bridges connecting them. He…

“When there are no keys, and there is no time signature,” Miss L. had explained, and it took time to make any sense; “you are the rules, and you feel what is a melody,” she’d tapped something that feltbeautiful, like daffodils blooming, though Eddie couldn’t say why; “and what is a warning.”

And then she’d tapped again, and it clenched in Eddie’s chest like a tornado siren, and…yeah.

That was kind of the best explanation he could have asked for.

——

It’s in middle school, when everyone else gets new band directors while Eddie sticks with Miss L., that it starts to…well.

That’s when the fact that Eddie’s alone in his lessons, and no one seems to know quite what he does—and the other kids who get that kind of treatment are usually the ones who can’t add or spell right, who have some kind of problem to work on extra hard—but it’s around then that Eddie starts being called names for it.

It’s not too bad, at first. Eddie’s worked for his two full years of elementary school lessons to get through recognizing the songs, suffers the point where recognizing becomes unbearable, overwhelming—Miss L. never left his side when he held his head in pain for all the noise, all the songs because they were everywhere, in everyone, and how was he supposed to learn what was right and what was good and what was just okay but then what was also everything the opposite when he couldn’t even think—

But she taught him the tools, the ways to sift through the chatter, as she called it. Because not all of it was a warning; not all of it was bad just because it wasn’t beautiful.

Some of the noise just was.

She showed him how to trust his own ear; his own song in his own chest as a guide, because that’s why he was here: he had a gift, an aptitude, built in and in need of development. Liked they’d said in the beginning.

He’s nearly thirteen when she teaches him how to write his own songs, in the not-notes and the no-tempos. In the nameless flow of sound.

It’s when his classmates overhear one of those works-in-progress, the taunting gets worse, starts to hedge toward unbearable.

Until Eddie asks if he can just stop: quit this. It’s not worth it. He doesn’t want to be a freak.

“It is a rite of passage, to ask this,” Miss L. says slowly, no judgement, and weirdly no pity; “but I should tell you first,” and her eyes narrow more than Eddie thinks he’s ever seen them.

“Your skill is already greater than any I have seen, and is only getting sharper, more keen.”

And hell if a teacher’s ever said something niceabout Eddie Munson, let alone something that sounds like flat-out praise.

“They cannot hear the music, this is why they say those things,” she flicks her wrist less like conducting a chorus and more like shooing a gnat, like that’s the appropriate amount of consideration the comments deserve. “Your task has always been to teach them what they do not know, to show them the wonder they are ignoring as they live and breathe.”

And while it really would have been nice to know that before signing up for this…this what, calling? Vocation?

While that would’ve been nice, Eddie…Eddie can at least mostly understand he wouldn’t have understood any of it in the fourth grade.

He barely understands now.

But he can feel it. He understands how to feel the music that fills all those gaps.

“This is common,” Miss L. turns back to him, steeples her fingers while humming something from the radio: not bad, but not beautiful. That’s what she means, he realizes. The radio plays common.

“This,” and she puts a hand over her own chest and keeps time with her fingers on the tabletop as she hums a wholly novel thing out of thin air, and Eddie has never seen someone else recognize the music, has never watched someone compose in the veins where the songs that hearts sing are played, let alone in real time; maybe she never had because he had to lean for himself, first.

But it is kind of exquisite to witness.

“This,” she stops, and raises a brow pointedly in Eddie’s direction; “is human, built in your cells.”

Eddie couldn’t name why, precisely, but he feels…shamed, but also empowered. So different, but they make an almost compelling melody together as they clash.

“They will call you freak before they call you prodigy,” Miss L. says it like a fact, which…kinda sucks to hear, in all honesty.

“They will label you insane, before they recognize you as genius,” and the way she adds that part makes him feel like that was her personal burden to bear, and he aches for her in it.

“They will cry out garbage and nonsense,” and here, these words: these are the ones Eddie knows immediately he’s meant to be hearing, be weaving into notes the strongest, the ones she wants him to keep closest and never lose:

“They will cry out worthless,” she spits out with a venom he’s never heard her use; “before they will sob in the face of your masterworks, and how they will breathe magic in the soul.”

And…Eddie doesn’t know exactly what to do in the face of the conviction she says that last part with. To doubt it, as he instinctively wants to, feels vile; the most egregious disrespect. He can’t bring himself to even try. So, he asks instead, voice rough:

“When will it change?”

Because despite everything: he doesn’t want to be a freak.

“That I cannot say,” she sighs, and she does sound sorry; “and it may never change at all.”

Eddie doesn’t know if he’s built to handle that, the possibility of never.

“But even if you leave, here and now,” Miss L. cuts into his despairing; “even if you stop your learning, the songs will never leave you.”

Oh.

Oh, so did they…did they teach him to hear a endless goddamn curse, and as a fucking kid—

“You would always have come to hear them,” Miss L. must read his mind, or maybe just his face; “just never with any place to funnel the noise,” and he…guesses he should be grateful. He nearly went mad in those early years, before she taught him how to make new melodies, concertos the likes of which even the great masters hadn’t penned, because they played in a different medium. Their notes and structured time were useful, but limited.

And if they never heard otherwise, how would even the most brilliant talents know what they were passing over, leaving behind?

“Do you still wish to leave?”

Eddie turns, almost having forgotten Miss L. was still sitting there, watching him. Almost having forgotten what he’d come to ask, to give up.

There’s no question left, now.

He gets out his notebook, his pen, and starts as he always does.

With the listening.

——

It’s a genuine distraction—the songs get louder with time, but Miss L. tells him that’s a sign of his skill growing, his notice of the equivalents of key signatures and ligature notes in the heartbeats he passes every day—but it costs him passing senior year once, and then again, and almost a third time until by the skin of his teeth, he manages. While every other teacher shames him for it, derides him as incurably stupid, or at the very least unambitious to the point of embarrassment, the extra years mean more time with Miss L., and Eddie…most days, Eddie is nothing but thankful.

More time means Eddie also learns that the songs he hears are as much a public service as they are an art form, as much a defense mechanism as a craft. He knows when bullies are on the prowl, and to make himself scarce for their screeching cacophonies. He knows when he has to be less of a coward and step in when a wild rhythm makes him sick with its fear.

The more he pays attention to the not-quite-beautiful songs—especially when he thinks on them later and stumbles upon nuggets of the exquisite inside every way they weren’t—the more he remembers years ago, out of almost nowhere, but maybe…maybe everywhere, like it’d been written in his heart’s song the day she spoke it:

“My first day,” he enters the same room—not the same-same room but the one in the high school that’s as abandoned as all of them have been, always Room 011—but he enters the room close to the end of the year, the last year, with the question thick on his tongue, and woven the same in his song as he closes the door and feels his heartbeat quicken for no reason and every reason, like he’s long learned these songs always do.

Miss L., for her part, just nods; waits.

“You said,” Eddie rolls his lips together; “emergencies.”

It’s a delay tactic. They both know it.

She’s kind to play along.

“Mmm,” she hums; “the slightest bits, yes, you can shift the rules to change the song, because you made the rules to begin with,” she eyes him carefully, then. “But only by bits, and in only the most dire moments.”

Yeah, yeah, sure. He never thought he could like…write lines to coax a heart to sing itself back from the dead or some shit. He gets the point.

Again, they both know: that’s not the point he’s here for, heart pounding high in his throat.

“But then you also said something else.”

This time, she doesn’t nod at all; just stares. Eddie has to clear his throat twice to make a sound so as to ask:

“What’s a True Note?”

Because Eddie’s had a couple flings here and there. And the idea of anything real with someone else, alongside the weight of this…talent of his, this training that’s defined half his life by now: it’s really nothing more than a stray idea. But Eddie can’t really hide from the fact that, somewhere along the way, he’s suffused that idea with so much promise and potential, but with no legs for it to fucking stand on.

And he’s about to graduate. About to go out into the world and…who the fuck knows what.

He needs to either hold onto this insane, silly notion of some cosmic meant-to-be match waiting for him somewhere, that it’s at least possible, and then hold on to it like burning—or let it go, and get on with the rest of his fucking life.

“Do you know how I said you could sway the rhythm just the littlest bit, in the greatest of need?”

Of course he did. She literally just said it.

“Your True Note will sing like you have never heard before,” she tells him like it’s not something…immense; “and that song will sway your rhythm so much more than the littlest of anything.”

She just fucking says it, like it isn’t already swaying the rhythm his heart sings in. Here and now.

“That heartsong will change your world.”

And all Eddie can even think to ask, to make more plain in it, is just one thing:

“Will I change theirs, too?”

Miss L’s eyes lock to his and hold for enough seconds where it should be uncomfortable, where his chest starts to grow unbearably tight.

“Hmm,” she considers finally; “if it is meant to be that way.”

Eddie wants to scream. It’s not enough.

And still somehow, it will have to be.

——

In the months that follow his freedom, he misses Miss L. Kinda desperately.

But the lack of structure, the openness of knowing he has to find a way to piece together all the snippets of song he’s bombarded with: it is the reason he ever picks up a guitar. It’s the whole learning heartsongs thing that he has to thank for it, a roundabout journey toward the destination he’d wanted from the beginning.

Or else, that he thought he did.

It’s not just guitar, though. He eventually learns the woodwinds without ending up with a splinter in his mouth. Figures out the different harmonies at hand in making sure he tempers the way he breathes for the brass. He loves the piano, and the cello especially, alongside guitar and double bass: he makes a trip back home specifically to see her and ask—Miss L. tells him it’s probably because of their strings, like hearts have, too.

It feels right in a way things haven’t felt in a very long time.

Which is really how he comes to not only understand, but to accept in his bones: no matter if they ever call him prodigy or genius, if he ever plays a concert hall or anywhere but on a street corner with an open case for change, he was made for this; built for this. The woman with the horn-rimmed glasses who sent him to the basement music room saw it in him. Miss L. proved it to him by teaching him to prove it to himself. He doesn’t know if he’d have picked it, but he knows it was never something he could have picked or turned down in the first place at all: it’s who he is.

He is the music. He is the songs that hearts use for singing. And maybe someday he’ll meet someone who sees it in him, and hears his song, and sings ecstatic. Maybe.

He hopes.

But either way: this is his life.

This is his melody.

——

It takes years before they do sob for his masterpieces, for them to be ready for a style and cadence they don’t understand because they will never comprehend the language, that speaks deeper than the logic required for any of those rules. It takes a long fucking time before they start listening with the lens of the first song any of them ever learned. But the time does come, and Eddie is grateful, because he’d genuinely feared the maybe-never he’d been warned about. He’s glad that’s not where he is, now.

But now? Things start to happen almost unbearably fast. Shows here and flights there, guest appearances and interviews, record labels and live recordings, a book deal he can’t even begin to think about. The world tips on its axis and Eddie only really considered that happening to him for one reason: because of a song so beautiful, in a Note so True—this isn’t that.

But everything still feels upside down anyway; totally off-kilter.

He’s crossed ten time-zones this time. He’s exhausted, but he has a performance tonight, just like he did in the tonight of the place he just left. The car he’s in on his way to the next venue is sleek, like they all are now; his team is already there preparing, so it’s just him and some local hires he hasn’t even had a chance to learn the names of yet, which he hates. He hates being privy to their songs and not even knowing their names, let alone their stories.

He jots the notes he gleans from how they sing without their words on the drive across town anyway. Waste not, and all that.

Eddie has the pen in hand, cap between his teeth, when the truck plows straight into them.

What follows would be unsurprising, if Eddie could process it from a bystander’s point of view—as it is, the only thing he knows in the melee is the music.

He is devastated, as he reaches out for the slowing songs around him, knowing in the back of his mind what their slacking tempos mean, and marveling with something like horror at how beautiful each one is as it starts to fade: still unique, still something Eddie could braid into a piece, certainly one to draw tears.

His own song is ebbing, he knows, but it’s less important than the sweet melodies around him, especially—

Oh.

Eddie thinks, with what may be the last thought left to him as pressure and heat and pain tingle at the edges of the music, almost too strong now to be drowned out by the notes that are what Eddie is at his core: but he thinks he may be too far gone already, because what he begins to hear is…

Exultant. It’s…

If Eddie believed in a heaven, this would be what the hosts there sang. When the idea of divinity is bandied about, they can only ever be talking about some cheap imitation of what Eddie hears now. Luminous. Effervescent.

Beautiful in a way that exceeds the word itself so deeply that it barely fits, obliterates the notion on sight.

And what a gift, Eddie muses as everything dims to black, to hear such Notes, such perfect music as the last thing he has to hold onto in the end.

To end on something that’s True.

——

The next tones Eddie hears are mechanical. He winces—not bad but certainly not beautiful—and then winces harder because wincing itself fucking hurts.

He holds himself still, seeks the song he knows in his own veins: yes, and he’d been so sure it was gone, because there’d be an accident, a crash, he’d been thrown, crushed, songs all around him were dying and he’d heard the magnificent symphony of otherworldly perfection so—

“I’m technically not supposed to be here,” a voice interjects, or no: drips in leisurely, like comfort, like honey; “because you’re a patient, and I’m,” and Eddie forces his eyes open to see the voice come out of a man, who is pointing at his chest: a uniform. Medical.

“I’m not dead?”

All signs do point that direction but…Eddie had been kinda fairly sure he was done for.

“God,” the man chokes like he’s pained, like the idea hurts him, and why; “no,” and he says that a little fiercely, protective almost; “though not for lack of an effort.”

He looks tired, as Eddie’s vision starts to clear some more. He looks radiant. Exquisite.

Beautiful.

“You saved me?”

Because Eddie clocks the uniform now: paramedic. The ones who come onto the scenes and try like hell to save who they can. Heroes.

“I helped,” the beautiful man says, like a hero would, of course. But…it still doesn’t make sense. If the man does this for his job, then Eddie isn’t special, so then why is he so vehement, and then what of all the fading songs Eddie remembers, because Eddie had heard—

“What about,” he starts, but there’s a hand over his quickly, soothing.

“Everyone’s here, different wards,” the hero-beauty tells him in lows tones; “we don’t know if they’ll all make it through the night, but,” he nods, like…this is enough.

And it is. Except…

“How?”

And where Eddie is baffled, his hero just quirks a brow.

“Don’t tell me you never covered emergencies?” he asks skeptically. “Most dire moments, greatest of need?”

And it’s with those words that Eddie’s world slows very quickly to a halt. The music swells in a way he’s never known: because it’s always present to hear.

Buts it’s never been so tangible to feel, not like this, and with such…magnificence, no lesser word could touch it. Maybe he truly is closer to death than not, maybe that’s the reason for the fervor in this man he doesn’t know—the choirs of the angels Eddie wasn’t banking on swells and is visceral, and this hero sits before him, speaks the words that have haunted Eddie more days of his life than not, and—

“This was where the music took my life,” the man pulls at his collar, indicative again: the heroism. He…he saves people, because he, he also hears…

“But I couldn’t have done it without you.”

His hand on Eddie’s tightens, like gratitude, and Eddie…gapes like a fucking fish, and then—

“There’s something else.”

“Not just here to check up on the fruits of your medical miracle?” Eddie’s tongue feels heavy, thick in his mouth; he feels sluggish all over, weighted down and like he can barely move because…this man hears the music that hearts make.

Can he hear the ineffable beauty, like Eddie can? He must, that’s how it works, so why is he not in the same amount of awe—

“Not just,” the man smiles small, but real, a little hesitant. A little…shy, maybe, before he straightens, leans a little closer.

“Watch that screen,” and he tracks Eddie’s gaze until Eddie’s fixed upon the ECG, the most disappointing distillation of the songs he’s learned to find so much wonder in.

But then the man is pressing Eddie’s hand to his own chest, which…is forward, given they don’t even know each other.

Eddie is maybe still on, or at least just-recently-off, death’s door, and either way he’s fucking thrilledwith this development, warm beneath his palm.

“Now count.”

It only takes a moment, to put the gestures together into a statement.

The beat under his touch matches the line across the screen. Exactly.

But this man’s not the one attached to the monitor.

“Got it?”

Eddie nods, and the man doesn’t hesitate, lifts Eddie’s hand and presses it back to Eddie’s own chest.

“Again.”

And that’s…that’s not the same rhythm as the one on the screen; the songs don’t match at all.

But Eddie can still hear the one that does—the beauty. The exaltation.

“Can you,” Eddie asks, lifts his finger that’s got a clip on it, and the man’s a professional, he’ll understand—looks less than conflicted about disconnecting Eddie from wires and leads before clipping his own finger and letting the screen shift to a new cadence.

The same one under Eddie’s hand, in Eddie’s own chest.

“Holy fuck.”

“Yeah,” the man barely breathes, and Eddie notices now how intense his eyes are, focused solely on Eddie, and…Eddie remembers the words that came after the ones about emergencies. About how little he could help, but that he could still do something.

But with only one person, it could be—

“You didn’t just sway my rhythm,” Eddie half-gasps; “you made it your own.”

And oh: Eddie never tied the song of hearts to the song of laughter, but from this man, the huff of incredulous joy that slips from him now—they’re made wholly of the same stuff.

Symphonic. Staggering. Weeping to feel this much, in the soul, to be privy to such a…

Masterpiece.

“Worked both ways, it seems.”

“I heard you,” Eddie blurts out, because it makes sense now; “before I, when I thought I was,” dying, when he thought it was all over; “like I’ve never heard anything before.”

And now: of course this man hears the heavenly movement Eddie thought was a mercy before the end but was instead the arrival of everything he’d ever hoped to one day find, literally coming to rescue him in more ways than one; but that song is somehow commonplace to this unfathomable angel on the earth.

And what this man hears stronger, louder, dearer seems somehow to be Eddie, the song he sings from the chest, in how it’s causing those caramel eyes to glimmer, and to barely blink lest they miss something in just…Eddie.

“You never stopped,” the man says with urgency, with feeling; “your song never stopped,” and then he’s closing his eyes and laying both his hands over his own chest, where Eddie’s heartsong is ringing full and maybe changing his world, because the song in Eddie’s chest sure as hell has already changed his, and—

“It’s extraordinary.”

And Eddie, in years of ridicule, in months of celebration, in all the ups and downs and doubts and hopes this life of songs and hearts and rhythms and beats has left him with, in all of it—

Those two words rewrite his whole fucking being.

“True Note,” Eddie mouths more than speaks before he scoffs; “shit, but that seems like a really fucking inadequate thing to call it,” and his eyes lift to take in the man who he knows, he knows is going to be his magnum opus, or more: is going to write the magnum opus they will be and breathe and share from here to all ends:

“To call you.”

And there’s the clearest sense of a trip in a beat, but who it belongs to isn’t clear, and maybe that’s the reality for them both now: every subtlety of the song is now shared, now theirs.

“You could start with Steve.”

Eddie looks up, breath a little heavy, but the smile on the man’s face is broad and kind of overjoyed, kind of looks like Eddie’s chest feels:

“My name’s Steve.”

And that?

Best damn title for a symphony Eddie’s ever fucking heard.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @rebellatlas @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yesdangerpls @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

divider credit here

[squash1]

ok book club <3 what are we reading that’s actually good and would maybe fill the trc shaped hole in my soul???? and don’t say reread. unless you say reread the dreamer trilogy because i’m so close to giving into the urge.

please. please. give me your suggestions.

as a frame of reference here are non-trc books i love & would recommend (different content, same soul):

watch over me by nina lacour

in memoriam by alice winn

under the whispering door by tj klune

these violent delights by micah nemerever

the anthropocene reviewed by john green

summer sons by lee mandelo

a tale for the time being by ruth ozeki

i need an actual book club but tumblr took away my group chats :(

anyway love you please give me suggestions!!!!!

[starry-bi-sky]

i have... ✨Danyal Al Ghul Headcanons✨ but specifically for my yaelokre danyal oneshot

There's also the tumblr post here but I recommend the link in the title because its the ao3 version, and that one is edited and has some stuff in it that's not in the tumblr post, and will be the version I'm using.

So for summary: this Danyal is also from a Demon Siblings Au where Danny is five years older than Damian. However, things turned out a bit differently, and Danny and Damian had a fantastic relationship with one another. Danny loved music and regularly came up with songs to sing to Damian with. Specifically the folk band Yaelokre's EP "Hayfields" (seriously go fucking listen to it its sooo good. Harpy Hare is the second song but its my favorite. Special shoutout to @gascansposts for introducing the band to me)

He falls off a train when he's twelve and Damian is seven while the two of them and Talia are on mission. He ends up with magically induced amnesia and wakes up in Arkansas while the Fentons are on their yearly Divorce-iversary visit to Aunt Alica, and since he can only remember his name, he ends up being taken into their care.

---------------

Yaelokre Danny has the same facial scar as Things in Threes Danyal, since he was initially another version of him where things turned out better. I'm debating on whether or not I should take it away however, and give him a different scar (maybe from when he fell off the train?), just because the scar is a pretty key identifier for Ti3 Danyal.

-----------------

Danny frequently visits Aunt Alicia in Arkansas! Well, only after he gets settled in and stuff. He doesn't really like the city that much and prefers the countryside where Alicia lives. I know she lives in a cabin but I'm changing it to a farm, so she puts Danny to work and gets him to help her.

I don't want to confine his hobbies to only being star stuff, because people tend to have more than one hobby and I feel like it reduces him to one-dimensionality, so he likes to garden, and learns guitar. His room becomes filled with plants, and he turns their roof into a rooftop greenhouse right below to OPS Center.

He has a complex relationship with the weapons from his past, but he's not... like... appalled by it? When he finds his weapons in the Fenton attic all he thinks is that they're his weapons, and he starts carrying a knife on him afterwards. Essentially he becomes fascinated with weaponry because its one of the few physical ties he has to his past, and while he's not training like he is in the League, he allows his strong muscle memory to guide him through his katas.

Danny likes climbing things. This causes Problems For Everyone Else.

----------------

Danny was not the "kinder Al Ghul" in the League. His kindness extended to his brother and family, and that's it. To everyone else he had high expectations out of them, and the pride you'd expect from the grandson of Ra's Al Ghul and trained by its top members. While he wasn't like, unnecessarily cruel or anything, he wasn't merciful either.

This transfers post-train fall as him coming off as no-nonsense and unforgiving. He's not fond of the idea of giving people second chances, and is skeptical of the idea. He's disgusted by incompetency and views it as an unforgivable offense, especially if he thinks that the person should know better, although he's not sure why. Some egocentrism for the soul.

He doesn't like being touched by anyone who isn't family, and gets irritated when anyone grabs him or holds onto him for extended amounts of time. Dash has gotten hit so many times. With Jack Fenton's tendency for abrupt physical affection, it doesn't make it any better. I'd argue it'd make it worse because Danny doesn't want to be touched more often than not.

------------------

Danyal had a red scarf in the League that he wore on his last mission, it came off before he fell off and caught itself on the roof. Damian still has it and took it with him to Wayne Manor. He's got it locked in his room and takes it out when he's alone and missing Danny the most. One time he forgot to put it away before leaving his room, and Dick was visiting the manor for something and found it. Damian found him holding it and freaked out.

Dick could only say "I've never seen you wear this, Damian, this is really pretty--" before Damian shoved him to the floor and stole it out of his hands, before screaming at him; "Don't touch this! You don't ever touch this! This is mine! You hear me!?"

It caused such a commotion that the rest of the family present came to see what the fuss was about, and Damian kicked them all out of his room. Dick is the one brother Damian's the closest with, so the fact he reacted so strongly shocked them all.

This is likely what leads to the "Danyal" conversation.

[gravitywonagain]

Under Streetlights, Chapter 1: call me what you want, when you want, if you want

He shouldn't even have seen it. The picture is so small, the man's jaw barely even in the top corner, but that smile... Lan Zhan can't ignore that smile. He could never ignore the one that lives in his memory, too similar, too haunting. Lan Zhan's thumb moves without his permission, tapping the thumbnail, opening the profile: WuMing, 27, online now, 31 miles away.

[be-bisexual-eat-hot-chip-and-lie]

read a fic from señor bun’s pov

why yes i did weep

[russenoire]

in response to this post:

ONE-sensei is a bit of a troll, not gonna lie.

but... i actually like this ending, at least for comedy's sake. the stark juxtaposition of

'boy gets hit by a truck and his unexamined jungian shadow self flattens a city before he finally makes peace with it'

with

'and everything was just fine six months later'

is funnier than spelling out exactly how we get from point A to point B, because we KNOW — as the audience — that it wasn't 'just fine'. after everything we saw, how could it be?

subverted expectations underpin a lot of comedy, even dark comedy, especially absurdist comedy. MP100 is practically built on both. this story wrings a lot of humor out of sad, if not tragic, situations: witness shigeo's 'who told you you could pass out?!' after his home has been reduced to kindling. or ritsu's admission that he only recently stopped crying himself to sleep at night over his inability to bend spoons like his big brother. while he's letting shigeo know just how much he supposedly hates him in that alley.

not expanding upon the real-life consequences of said city-flattening is funny precisely because dropping 'i wrecked my hometown after nearly dying in a car accident on the way to ask out my crush when i was a teenager' in a conversation and just... leaving it there? would be fucking horrifying in real life. here, in the elastic magical-realist context of MP100, it's more darkly absurd than anything else...

more to your point, OP: in this particular series, ONE-sensei tells so much of this story by implication. the answers to some of your questions are in the text, only... alluded to.

this might get long. bear with me:

the fact that joseph from the government exists? and that he's an esper working in secret? implies that the knowledge of destructive espers might need to be concealed from the public at large, perhaps to prevent wide-scale panic or ostracism of espers themselves. i doubt the government was forthright with its citizens about the confession arc disaster or the actual cause, for the same reasons.

that suzuki's broadcast-hijacking world domination announcement is met with public disdain and ridicule, especially over social media? outside of our cast, no one actually takes his threat seriously until it happens. reigen's trash-talking claw's seventh division down to earth also shows how little respect espers who don't make themselves useful to society actually get here. he is, after all, just another member of the public.

that reigen agrees to take on haruaki amakusa as a client after the world domination arc in part because he's worried about losing business? people have begun to move away from seasoning city in the aftermath; whatever the threat amakusa's hyakki present, neutralizing them as soon as possible is best for reigen's continued financial health. i can see even more residents deciding they've had enough and leaving after shigeo's last brush with death. would you stay?

how many people know shigeo is connected to reigen, apart from the people they both know? out of his own inflated and fragile ego, reigen presents himself as a sole proprietor on his website; it doesn't seem his business or its reputation would be directly affected at all.

and the injuries caused? possible deaths? we get a taste: early on in chapter 100, several people are trapped and unable to move in a 地盤沈下 (jibánchinka, literally: 'land subsidence', which can apply to a sinkhole, a landslide...) shigeo has left in his wake. we only find out because a cop is being briefed on this and its cause while trying to detain the suspect for questioning.

but like all other bodily harm caused in this story, we aren't treated to the fallout. did the elderly ishiguro survive shou plowing him into the earth? did miyagawa die after teruki flipped his barrier onto him and broiled him in his own flames? did those high school bully boys live after shigeo cracked their heads open on the pavement like eggs? like, these are good questions. (i'm inclined to believe that all these people died, but many would call me harsh for saying that about an otherwise kind story. we never see them again, either way.)

shigeo actually has a healing factor of sorts; his jungian shadow self keeps plucking him from death's arms. we have no way of knowing if this is true for anyone else, because that isn't the story ONE wanted to tell. if nothing else, the mangaka's lack of desire to engage with this question of lethal consequences is at least consistent across MP100.

any questions that aren't answered either directly or that can't be answered by easy extrapolation can foster continued engagement with the material.

for example: we don't know what shigeo's parents think about much of anything in this story, besides how little they expect from him and how ritsu sets a standard they feel shigeo should live up to. this boy goes through hell multiple times and is never shown to confide in either of his parents about it, instead suffering in silence for some time until he finds someone he feels safe enough to talk to. all this gives me the distinct impression that shigeo just isn't that close to his mother or his father. i can understand why. it's actually kind of sad, even as readers' frustrated expectations of real-life parental involvement with — and confusion over — his and his brother's shenanigans also generate some dark humor.

this also establishes a precedent: since we never check in with them, by the time the confession arc rolls around, their opinion hardly matters. (but i'm sure someone has written a fic fleshing that out! i'm somewhat curious myself.)

[ppjeterka]

was going through my old wips for writing inspo and stumbled across this isolated scene from a fic with a premise i really enjoy but haven't ever elaborated upon for some reason...posting here bc i actually kinda like this scene (?) and also bc I'm hoping posting it will motivate me to work on this and my other mattdrai fic languishing from neglect

[ratatatastic]

do you write fic on ao3?

unfortunately for everyone involved i do!

[liuisi]

speaking of classics i feel like there will always be that one book you read for school that will always stick with you. not because you liked it but because you despised it so much. anyways thats me for la vie et demie by sony labou tansi like it was 190 pages and i wanted to tear my hair out after every single one

[chaoswillcalmusdown]

The Banshees of Inisherin / Polite Society / Spider-Man: Across the Spider-verse / Summer of Soul/They Cloned Tyrone /The Godfather/Rye Lane / Bottoms / Die Hard

9 Favourite First Time Watches: 2023

Tagged by @thatidomagirl and tagging @cryptiddies @icedsodapop @polarcell @naslostcontrol @kutputli @fishbarconcept and anyone else who wants to do it