#i just love musician aus

[marieanneline]

tddk music artist au where their love language is singing each others songs at their own concert

[starry-bi-sky]

Stuck in the middle of a forest made of

Flesh and bones and they're all scared of

A lost little boy who has lost his heart

Fear's not enough, they have to

Tear him apart —-------

There are two things Daniel Fenton knows that his family knows as well: 

He’s adopted.

He can’t remember anything else before that.  

‘Adoption’ is a loose term, implying that they went through the official legal processes and troubles of adopting a child into their home willingly, and with the full intention of doing so going into it. That is not what happened. What happened is that Jasmine Fenton found a half-dead child, in strange clothing, in the middle of the woods at her Aunt Alicia’s cabin, and then she went and got her parents. 

What happened is that a twelve year old Danny woke up in the same cabin, wearing clothes much too big on him that didn’t belong to him, and with very little memory of before that moment. He wakes up like a spring being set loose, sitting up so fast he scares the daylights out of Jasmine Fenton sitting next to him. He wakes up, reaching for his sleeve for something that isn’t there, and when it isn’t his mind stutters, like he’s tripped at the top of a steep hill. 

When they ask him for his name, he tells them, clearing muddled thoughts from his mind; Danny. He’s twelve.

(He thinks that’s his name, at least. It sounds right; it feels right. If he thinks really hard about it, he thinks he can remember someone calling him that, utter adoration in their voice. So it must be his name.) 

The Jasmine girl convinces her parents to take him home with them, and they give him the spare guest room upstairs. He has nothing to fill it with.

It’s… a strange experience, to go to a ‘new’ home when he doesn’t even remember his old one. 

The official adoption process… happens. He can’t say it’s easy, or difficult. He’s oblivious for the most of it, Jasmine intends on helping him settle in and Danny can’t say he enjoys the smothering. He learns that he is stubbornly self-independent, that’s one new thing he knows about himself. 

His adoption papers say ‘Daniel J. Fenton’. Danny remembers staring at the name ‘Daniel’ for a long, long moment, something curdling sour in his sternum. His name is Danny, that he knows. But it’s not Daniel. But he doesn’t know any other way of saying it, so he keeps his complaints to himself.

(Jack Fenton boisterously claps his hand on Danny’s shoulder and jerks him around, grinning wide as he welcomes him into the Fenton Family. Danny’s mind blanches at the touch on his shoulder, an instinct snapping like the maw of a snake, telling him to cut off the man’s fingers for daring to touch him.) 

(He keeps the thought to himself, tension rising up his shoulders the longer Jack Fenton’s heavy hand stays on him.) 

They found Danny in the summer. It’s a perfect coincidence, Maddie Fenton says before she goes back into her lab with Jack Fenton. She says it’s enough time to allow Danny to adjust; that they’ll enroll him into the school year in the fall. Then she stuffs a canister of ectoplasm onto the top shelf, and disappears like the ghosts she studies back down the stairs.  

(There’s something eerily familiar about the ectoplasm sitting in the fridge, something unsettlingly so. Danny knows what that stuff is, but he doesn’t know where. When the house is empty, he takes a can from the fridge and inspects it.)

Jazz wants him to leave the house. Danny doesn’t want to step foot outside of the FentonWorks building until he has something that quells the feeling of vulnerability he gets whenever he does. He tried to once, and he felt exposed. Unsafe. 

He turned back around and went inside.

—-------

Where do we go

When the river's running slow

Where do we run

When the cats kill one by one

—------

One day, when the house is empty — or, as empty as it can be; the Fenton parents down in the lab, and jazz out with friends. Danny is making a sandwich, and he caves into the urge to flip the knife in his hands between his fingers. A childish impulse, but one he falls for nonetheless. It comes to him easily, like second nature, in fact. The slip of the blade between his fingers is seamless, flowing with an ease like water running down the wall.  

He’s almost startled by it; his body holds memories that his mind does not. Muscles that know which way to move and twist, limbs that know how to hold and how to throw. He continues twirling it, fascinated, as if he were a scientist discovering a new species of animal. 

It’s not for a handful of minutes when a new thought hits him; an impulsive thought that pops in the back of his mind like a firecracker; Danny moves without thinking. 

He turns, and throws the knife. The pull of his shoulder, the flick of his elbow, is familiar like a hug. He knows when to let go, and the blade flies through the air in impressive speed, embedding itself into the wall with a hearty, loud thunk. Sinking into the drywall like butter. 

Danny stares at it in shock, he feels relieved — about what? — before he feels the guilt. He scrambles across the kitchen to pull it out, heart racing in his chest at being caught, and prays no one notices the hole it left behind. 

(He runs up the stairs before anyone can find him, food forgotten, and hides the knife beneath his mattress like a guilty murder weapon.)

After that, he leaves the house more. It’s more out of fear of being caught than the desire to leave. But Danny is quickly learning that among all things, he is someone who was dangerous, before he lost his memory. Even with his mind in fractures, he is still dangerous. 

He’s not sure how to feel about that — he thinks he should be scared. He feels a little proud, instead.

—------

Hazel beneath our claws

While we wait for cerulean to cry

Unsettled ticks run through time

Enough for the hunt to go awry

—-----

There’s another thing he learns about himself. That he knows about since he woke up. He knows that he left someone behind. He doesn’t know who, but he knows they must have been close; he’s always looking down and finding himself surprised when the only shadow he sees is his own. 

He thinks that he must have sung to them a lot; he finds himself humming familiar melodies when he’s lost in thought. Lullabies lingering at the tip of his tongue, an instinct to turn and sing them to someone beside him. He can’t remember the lyrics, but his mouth does, it tries to get him to say them when he’s not thinking. He can’t. 

Danny’s found himself humming under his breath more times than he can count, trying to recall whatever it is his mind is trying to claw forward. 

(“That’s a pretty song, Danny.” Jazz tells him at breakfast one day, Danny screws his mouth shut. He hadn’t realized he was humming. “What is it?”) 

(Something mean and possessive rears its head on instinct, uncoiling like a snake from its ball. His shoulders hunch defensively, he bites his cheek to prevent himself from baring his teeth. He doesn’t know what song it is, but it’s not for her. “I don’t know.”)  

He misses his person. Dearly. He knows, the longer he is without them, that they must have been close. Otherwise, he wouldn’t feel like he’s missing a chunk from himself. He wouldn’t be turning to someone who's not there; reaching for a hand that’s missing, birdsong on his tongue, a story to tell. 

A dream haunts him one night. Warm and familiar, he’s holding onto someone smaller than him, they’re tucked into his side like a puzzle piece. He’s humming one of his songs that is always playing in the back of his mind, an unfinished tale of a harpy and a hare. Danny can’t remember their face, not all of it. He remembers green eyes, hair dark like his own, skin brown like his. 

He loves them more than anything else in the world, a fact he knows down to his soul. He loves them so much it fills his heart with sunlight. Danny squeezes them tight, nuzzling into their hair; he makes them laugh. Then, he proudly boasts something. That when he takes something of their father’s, that his person — a sibling? That feels right — will be… the word fades from Danny’s mind before he can make sense of it. 

His person hugs him tight, his… brother? And their mother — a woman whose face he can’t remember either, but who he loves like a limb nonetheless — appears, smiling. Her hands reach for them both, voice calling them, ‘her sons’. There’s ticking in the distance, it sounds like the fastening of chains.

Danny wakes up cold, tears streaming down his face. The details of the dream already fading from his mind like the cold pull of a corpse.   

—-------

Harpy hare

Where have you buried all your children?

Tell me so I say

—-------

When school starts that Fall, Danny joins the sixth grade class, and quickly learns more things about himself. One of those things being that he’s smarter than the rest of his grade, whatever education he had before, it was better than the one he’s getting now. 

Everyone knows he’s adopted right off the bat. He tells them when the teacher forces himself to introduce himself, but it’s not like they needed him to tell them for them to know; he never existed in their little world before now, and the Fentons are pale as they come. Danny is not.

He befriends Sam Manson and Tucker Foley; they ask him about the scars fading up and down his arms, they ask him about the scar carved diagonal across his face.

Danny, as politely as he can, tells them he doesn’t remember. He thought kindness would come second nature to him, his dream burned into his mind where he hugged his brother so sweetly. Apparently, his sweetness is only second nature to people he considers his own. 

(It becomes even more apparent when Dash Baxter tries to bully him later that day, and Danny ruffles like an eagle threatened. His mind whispers, hissy and agitated, sinking like a shadow at his shoulder, several different ways Danny could kill him for talking to him like that, and fifteen more ways he could cripple him.)

(Danny ignores those thoughts, up until Dash Baxter tries to grab him. Then he breaks his nose on the wood of his desk. It’s easy how quickly the rest of his grade sinks him down to the status of social pariah.)

(At least Sam and Tucker still talk to him after that. When Danny goes to the principal’s office later, he wisely doesn’t mention the worse things he could’ve done than break Dash Baxter’s nose.)  

—--------------

It clicks and it clatters in corners and borders

And they will never

Hear me here listen to croons and a calling

I'll tell them all the

Story, the sun, and the swallow, her sorrow

Singing me the tale of the Harpy and the Hare

—-------

More dreams come, of course they do. Each one halfway to forgotten whenever he wakes up, ticking faint in his ears. He is many different ages. He is young, shorter than a table. He is older, holding onto his little brother. He is singing in almost every single one. He is singing to his brother. 

Danny can barely remember the lyrics, he’s begun leaving a journal by his bedside so that it’s the first thing he can write down when he wakes up. He’s a storyteller, he learns. He feels like a historian, trying to piece together a culture long dead and forgotten. 

His most vivid dream-like memory is not a happy one, and for once he’s almost relieved he barely recalls it. He is somewhere that isn’t home, but his mother and brother are there. He is dressed in black, blades keen in his hands. 

They are atop a moving train. They are fleeing something. His brother is struggling to keep up, he is small, and young. It’s beautifully sunny, they are somewhere green and lovely. 

It is a fast dream. 

His brother stumbles on something, and Danny, fast as a whip, snatches him by the back of his shirt and hoists him up to his feet before he can fall. “Watch your feet, habibi.” He murmurs low, a hand on his back. It’s hard to hear, there is wind in their ears.

His brother, face obscured in all but his eyes, which are green as emeralds, nods. 

The dream blurs, but Danny falls behind. His foot catches on air — impossible, it should’ve been, at least. He never trips. — and he lands against the roof with a thud and a grunt. His mother and brother stop, and turn for him. 

The train hits a turn before Danny can get up, and he shouldn’t have, something pulls on him, he swears, but he slips. He can’t find the purchase to pull himself up, cold fear hits him as his nails scrape against the metal. 

His mother and brother’s horrified faces are the last thing he sees before he disappears off the side of the train. 

(The ticking is at its loudest when he wakes up, pounding against his inner skull. He only manages to write down ‘train fall’ in his journal, before he’s flipping over to press his head into his pillow to get the pain to stop.) 

—---  

She can't keep them all safe

They will die and be afraid

Mother, tell me so I say

(Mother, tell me so I say)

—-------

When Danny is fourteen he is still humming songs he can’t remember, his mind still in a broken puzzle. But his room is now decorated with stars and plants in every corner. He has a guitar he keeps in the corner of his room, and he plays the lullabies in his head on the strings over and over again. 

The ectoplasm in the fridge still unsettles him, still reminds him of a past he can’t recall. The knife beneath his mattress has returned to the kitchen — he doesn’t need it. He found a box in the attic last year, it had his name on it, and inside he found familiar, strange clothes, and more weapons than he thought was possible to carry on one person. 

(Even without knowing that the Fentons prefer guns to blades, Danny knows, instinctively, that they were his weapons. He was — was? Is — a dangerous person. He takes the box down to his room to sort through. The weapons all fit into his callused hands almost perfectly — the grooves worn to fit his palm. They’re just a little small.) 

(He tentatively takes a small blade with him to school one day, and feels much more comfortable with it sheathed beneath his shirt. He’s kept it on him ever since, like he’s reunited a lost limb to himself.)   

Danny doesn’t have a name for his person, his little brother, nor does he have a name for his beloved mother. He’s haunted by dreams every few weeks, many of them repeating. He’s ingrained the words he can remember to memory, and the ones he doesn’t, he writes down in his journal. His little brother; Danny calls him a bird, he can’t figure out what kind. His little bird of some kind; when Danny takes something from their father — what, he can’t remember what — then his little brother will be a little bird. 

(He doesn’t have a name for his brother, yet, but he’s calling his birdie in his head. It’s better than nothing.)

—------

Seeker, do you ever come to wonder

If what you're looking for is within where you hold

Will you leave a trail for them to follow a path

You'll soon forget

Home

—---------

When he’s fourteen, Danny dies. It does nothing to fix his fractured memories, much to his consternation. It just confirms something he already knows; that he was someone dangerous, and that he still is. 

When the shock of death has worn off, Danny inspects his ghost in the metal reflection of the closest table. It’s blurry, hard to see, but shock green eyes pierce back at him, green like the portal. Lazarus, Danny’s mind whispers, and he blinks rapidly.

‘Lazarus,’ he mouths to himself. It’s familiar. Sam shows him with her phone what he looks like, joking that he looks like an assassin. Danny doesn’t think she’s that too far off. 

He doesn’t tell her that. He tucks the thought away with the rest of his secrets, and fiddles with the hood gathering at his neck, attached to a cape with torn edges swinging down to his ankles. He pulls it over his shock white hair. It shadows over his face impossibly so, until all you can see are his green-green eyes peering out like a wolf hiding in the brush.

He ends up calling himself Phantom. 

(Maybe now he can start putting lyrics to his lullabies; his memories may not have returned, locked away with the sound of a clock, but the dead can talk. One of them may just have answers.) 

----------

Home is where we are

Home is where you are

Home is where I am

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

Dedicated to @gascansposts for being the one who introduced me to the band Yaelokre, and thus being the whole reason I was inspired to write this in the first place >:] Those lyrics at the line breaks are all from their album Hayfields.

[smilesrobotlover]

Revali has been adopted into this family and no you cannot change my mind

[theslowestpoke]

Stiles as the audio engineer with his own studio he built up from a tiny basement to a hole-in-the-wall place that gets clientele only from word of mouth because he can't be bothered to do any promotion on his own, but he's a fucking wizard at mixing and he charges just enough to pay his bills, so most of the local bands have recorded with him at least once and quite a few have done multiple albums with him.

Isaac as the live sound tech who works the circuit of local venues, same as everyone else, and he's been doing it for several years, but he's never lost the joy of discovering new bands and essentially getting to see all the ones you already know for free and making them sound as excellent as possible so someone else can fall in love with them, too. He remembers the names and instruments of bands he's teched and has dumb inside jokes with all the drummers because they spend so much time together when he's doing setup and load-outs.

Scott as the bassist of a long-standing favorite local band who has been trying to get the two of them together for years, because even though all the musicians know them both, they've never had occasion to run into each other. He always makes sure to name drop them to each other when his band is setting up to perform or record and the drummer, Cora, backs him up, but their schedules are always too busy for it to work out.

Luckily, there's a big music festival coming up and Scott begged Stiles to come and record their live set even though he knows Stiles hates doing it, but he owes him a favor. That Isaac is on the schedule as the tech for their stage is totally coincidental and serendipitous, right?

[spotaus]

New Age AU (Reaper Pov)

Heads up to everyone, this has a big chunk of exposition/notes at the start, so if you want to skip that, I'd reccommend it :,) I'll make the first line of the actual story bits a different color, probably purple, just to make it easier for everyone!

Also! @ancha-aus and @papiliovolens Hello! Hopefully the energy here is fun for y'all!

No edits, fuck it we ball!

   Reminder to self: Reaper has been ruling over his kingdom for decades. He's rule at least 2 generations prior to Nim's reign. His kingdom is on the edge of an ocean strait, enough that he can just barely make out the towers of rival castles across the water (like. Very American example here, but standing on the Michigan portion if Lake Michigan, sometimes you can see the Chicago Skyline across the lake, just barely. That kinda thing.) The only thing connecting him to those smaller cluster of kingdoms is a land bridge that connects the two closest points of the land. Several fishing villages live along it and it's stable, but it's a great funnel to cut off approaching armies. Reaper's kingdom has a powerful port, mountains bordering its land-border and seas on the others. A perfectly isolated paradise. (Also I think he inherited the throne from Life, who loves safely in the mountains among Nature)

   So, Reaper has been able to maintain peace for himself for ages, while the kingdoms on the other continent with less geographical advantages hadn't been as lucky. Conflicts, wars, usurpings, it all kept them at a disadvantage. Kept them *behind*. 

   Reaper was already a grown adult when he recieved the crown. It really shouldn't have fallen to him, but when Life 'died' she left in her will that Reaper (one of her advisors) was to take the throne. Of course, he did just that, and became insanely successful. (A lot of the other characters from his AU either aren't there or established their own kingdoms past the mountains.) 

   He's been able to watch the kingdoms apart from his own grow, listen in on their rumors and new problems. 

   For instance, he knew of the tradition of having a Court Wizard, their last one grew old and passed, and Reaper decided to write to the folks at magic academies across the several other kingdoms, saying he would visit to look for candidates. 

   He rarely left his kingdom, but considering he could dust people at will (well, if he removed his gloves) he wasn't exactly afraid of dying. So he left, abd he searched, and he met Geno at one of the academies. 

   Geno was a top student (set to become a new professor, if not for taking on the chance to be a Royal Wizard) and by then certainly an adult. He was making income for his brothers, and he was sure a Royal Wizard job would be cushy enough to send back Gokd for his brothers until he coukd move them in. Magic was natural to Geno, (inspired by Anchas AU here) a destructive sort, which could bend reality as it was. He often disguised it as other magic types, but he showed off to Reaper, admittedly. Reaper was the king of a prosperous kingdom. He needed this. 

   Reaper was impressed by Geno's control over magic, and he was certain he wouldn't find another wizard so skilled, nor so spirited. (Reaper attempted to say something and Geno rapidly started explaining his magic, completely absorbed in making sure Reaper got it right. He was bold.) But also. Reaper was a simple man. He thought Geno was the most handsome monster he'd ever seen in his years and years of rule. He liked the way Geno's voice sounded when he talked, he liked that squinting that his one socket did when he talked, he liked how fluidly Geno's hands moved when he summoned his magic, he liked it all. He was enamored. Down bad. 

   So, it hardly took a day before Reaper returned to the school to talk to Geno and offer him the position. Reaper was happy to agree to Geno's terms (the pay was to support his family, he'd said. Reaper ensured tye money would be delivered safely) and only after the contract was signed did Geno get to be excited. Openly excited. Because while he didn't hate the idea of teaching, being a Royal Wizard was thrilling. New. And Reaper liked to see that. 

   Geno had joined Reaper about a month later, coming by Ship and arriving with a new energy and passion. He was happy and so Reaper was happy. 

   And then, of course, Geno got word of Error being missing. Having gone missing in the center of Nightmare's Kingdom. 

   Reaper knew of Nightmare vaguely. One of a pair of twins, the sibling always pushed to the side and out of the limelight. Reaper had seen that ritual play out every generation, and he wasn't surprised to hear Nim planned to continue it. Though, he'd been shocked to hear that Nightmare had stolen the apple from his brother and taken the throne by force. What happened to the other twin was vague, none of his spies ever seemed to find much trace. Reaper kind of assumed he was dead. 

   And from there all he heard were bad things. That kingdom had been rough to start with, black markets and blood sacrifice and poor tax prices and poverty run amok, false religions preying on people, crime. It was horrible. So when Nightmare began to build his elite force openly, and fill it with criminals and gypsies (Reaper gets... skewed info sometimes, this I'd referring to Cross and Horror) he was amused by the boldness, and expected the kingdom to crumble in months. 

   But years passed, and things had... honestly gone silent. Sure there were rumors, but there was less harmful action directly from the crown. So Reaper had kinda let the news fade to the background. Until Geno brought up the kingdom to him. 

   Reaper agreed to send spies to search, but ultimately settled on devising a treaty, to see if he could get his people safe entry to do a more thorough search of the land for his missing sibling. 

.

.

.

.

.

   Reaper had sent out his letter a month ago. Something in his gut had told him that, whatever Nightmare was scheming during his absence, it would be much better to establish a basic treaty before he acted. 

   He hadn't been optimistic, of course. Despite the years of relative silence, his spies had been reporting odd movements og Nightmare's elite knights. It spelled trouble. 

   That was why, upon recieving the response from King Nightmare, he'd retired to his personal quarters, asking one of his men to stay outside his door. If Geno came asking, he could not enter. 

   Geno had been looking a bit better since Reaper had sent his first correspondence, but he found that his Wizard was nowhere near the fiery man he'd hired. Part of Reaper urged him to take up a supportive role, let Geno lean on his shoulder, to tell him his brother was likely already dead. Keep him all to hinself. 

   But. No. Taking advantage of Geno was not what he wanted, he wanted to help him, and to see the weight lifted off his shoulders. So for now, it was best to keep these letters private. If Nightmare was volatile, if he declared war or refused, Reaper couldn't bare to see the look on Geno's face. If he read this alone, there would be a chance at damage control. 

   So, he held the letter in his hands, sat at a heavy, dark wood desk that had been carved with flowers and animals. A remnant of when Life claimed this room as her own, Reaper couldn't bear to see it removed, so he kept it around. He liked running his fingers along the carvings of the snakes and the squirrels. 

   The letter. It was originally carried in a simple box, wooden and falling apart. The inside, however, had been lined with nice cloth. Clever. Easier to keep it from being noticed and stolen. The paper was thick, and folded over onto itself. A deep black wax seal held it shut. 

   Tilting it against the candlelight, Reaper could just barely decipher the Royal crest of Nightmare's kingdom. A curling branch of an apple tree, tucked away inside the shape of a sword. Two unknowable bird-like shapes on either side of the blade, wings open. 

   He took his letter-opener to the wax, slicing it away from the thick paper with a clean swipe. Unfolding it, the first thing he noticed was the handwriting. 

   It was swooping, elegant, and had several embellishments on certain letters, as though the writing itself was a sort of art. Reaper was shocked by the careful spacing and clean document. Most kingdoms had a scribe scribble a response, then packaged it in a gold-guilded box that got the messengers killed. This was refreshing. 

   His eyes skimmed the page, and what he understood was that, yes, the king would be interested in such a treaty. He asked for more details, for another letter to be sent, and offered that, perhaps he had something to offer as well to make their deal more robust. 

   It was signed at the bottom, in an ink that Reaper had to double-take to notice was tinted a slight purple compared to the others. Nightmare's signature, completed at the end with what he thought might've been the abstract face of an owl. Did he do that for all his signatures? 

   Reaper lingered, and read it, and re-read it, and then called in one if his spies to see if they spotted any codes or hidden writing. Only when he was positive he had not missed a single bit of trickery, did he draft a reply, decide on terms, and send it out to the other King. 

   Something about it was strange. Reaper had never known anyone from that kingdom to send their own letters, let alone hold their own quill. There were rituals, rites, certain rules to every little action. Honestly, he was pleased to see it hadn't been written in blood asking for a pact. (Yes, Life once recieved a letter of that nature.) It was a bit jarring. 

   But, he was doing this for Geno. He would stop at nothing to help his Wizard return that smile to his face, and to perhaps get worry from his mind long enough to resume spoiling him in gifts and gestures so be mind notice how deeply enthralled he was. 

   .

.

   .

   The letters, once Reaper sent his reply, came in more frequently, and with a certain vigor. 

   Reaper had only asked for a few things. A trade deal (purposefully vague) support if his kingdom ever went to conflict (unlikely, Reaper was very secure), and free passage of his people and soldiers to visit without prosecution. He had been honest in sharing that someone of importance had gone missing within Nightmare's borders, and he wanted to seek them out.

   Nightmare had sent his reply in the form of a fully detailed plan. What exports and imports each kingdom would benefit from, the best routes to take, which crops and productions were in cycle this season, and more. He admitted he was sure Reaper could handle himself, but magical weapons might be arranged for shipment, and he offered up his kingdom whole-heartedly for a search. His tone was almost remorseful as he explained he couldn't spare his own men to assist, but he agreed search parties would be welcome so long as they did not disrupt the flow of life in the kingdom. 

   It had been full of effort, Reaper had been unable to suss out any loopholes. No tricks. And, shockingly, there was a lack of the mention of any pacts or bonds that must be made between them for the treaty to progress. 

   In honesty, the plan detailed by this supposedly evil tyrant seemed to be tame. And... helpful.

   Reaper, in his next letter, had expressed gratitude, and had then carefully broached the topic of binding the contract. How Nightmare planned to proceed. 

   Nightmare, to Reaper's utter shock, denounced the old ways of his kingdom. Of his mother. The writing was a bit less neat, but Reaper could practically feel the frustration oozing off the page through the extra dots of ink that had no-doubt been flung from his quill in his furious writing. 

   He was polite, but reassured Reaper that he was not intending to complete any of the old peace-making practices, and instead would be following Reaper's customs for a treaty. A simple signed contract. Two copies, each the same, each signed by both of them. 

   Again, it almost felt too good to be true. 

   Over the course of several more letters, Reaper learned to begin taking this seriously. Nightmare seemed to be powerful, and skilled, biding his time to make major changes. 

   Nightmare added no clauses preventing Reaper from acting against him, or sheltering his enemies. No talk of war at all aside from a mention of defensive weaponry which was being produced by his own Royal Wizard. The King seemed entirely interested in truly growing a bond.

   And then he asked to meet in person. 

   Invited Reaper to his kingdom, as a show of good will and trust. To prove that things were different now. And Reaper, against his better judgement, agreed. He would bring himself, and Geno, and a few of his men. To sign the treaty, to arrange searches, to begin establishing the trade routes. 

   To see Nightmare, the tyrant his people feared, in the flesh. 

.

.

.

.

.

.

   Reaper arrived to the border in the dark of night. He had been delayed by duties for a few hours, and had sent a messenger ahead to inform whoever would be waiting to intercept his caravan. He and Geno were tucked together in the carriage towards the front, comfortable, but still weary. At least, Geno was. He was on-edge. Worried about his brother more deeply than usual. 

   He could see through the window as a pair of men approached on horseback. They only spoke to the front of the caravan, but Reaper knew who they were merely through the rumors his spies had delivered to him. 

   By the moonlight and a few torches, Reaper could see them. 

   One sat atop a beautifully white mare, his armor a similarly gleaming off white and dark steel, his face was covered by a mask, a snow leopard, with intricate spots adorning the gleaming surface. 

   By his side was another, riding a significantly sturdier horse, it might've been a mottled grey. He was draped in a cloak, but wore the Visage of a lion. It seemed to be stuck in a silent glower, the red eyrlight beyond the eye-holes giving it an air of warning. 

   Reaper had always wondered about the tradition of masks. They had been seen elsewhere, but they originated from this very kingdom. No other location took them quite as seriously or held them with such a high regard. Supposedly, the idea of a masquerade originated from here, though it would be seen as sacrilege from its people. 

   It was obvious that Nightmare had sent some of his elite soldiers to guide them. The presence of those four had been felt across the continent, Reaper had little doubt he and Geno would arrive safely to their destination. 

   And so the carriage rolled onwards. Several times, Reaper and Geno drew the curtains over their windows, but even Geno's anxieties weren't strong enough to keep him from admiring the views of the countryside from the carriage, or from letting Reaper joke with him about a few things. From speaking optimistically about finding his sibling. Of meeting the king. Of things being okay. 

   The castle was imposing, just as Reaper had heard in the rumors. 

   Much of it's walls and gates, and even the building itself, was carved. Stone slabs erected, then chiseled into the weaving lines of tree bark and intertwined branches. A few fences even appeared as petrified hedges, carved in such a way Reaper wasn't sure the gods hadn't created a plant made of stone, specifically fir this land. 

   The towers resembled twisting trunks, rooves resembling canopy. It was almost unsettling how glorious it was, just from the outside as they rolled forward. 

   When the caravan finally stopped, Reaper and Geno had composed themselves, and the door opened just as Reaper had experienced hundreds of times. His steward announced him, and he floated easily out of his ride. His feet did not touch the floor, merely hovered a few inches above it, but he didn't miss that even the path seemed to writhe with smoothed stone roots, overlapping into a beautiful pattern of grey. 

   Geno followed him, and only when they were stood side by side were they finally approached. 

On either side of the grand entrance door, guards stood at attention, but their greeting came from where the lead of the caravan had parked. 

   The two masked figures who had guided them here rounded before Reaper and bowed deeply. The snow leopard-masked knight was fad more stiff and formal. The lion had the guts to meet Reaper's eyes. 

   "King Reaper, we are two of King Nightmare's Royal Knights. It is an honor to be your escort," Spoke the snow leopard. Cross if his sources were correct. "If you would follow us, our King awaits you and your companion in the grand hall." 

   They both rose from their bows, and Reaper chuckled lowly as his caravan slowly dispersed from behind them, servants helping to guide the others who arrived with them. 

   "By all means, please lead the way, good knight." He agreed. 

   Cross set off at an even pace, Reaper and Geno remaining at eachother's sides. The lion-mask, Horror his mind supplied him, followed behind them at a lumber, not yet having spoken a word.

   Sometimes (often) Reaper found it hard not to keep his eyes on Geno. From what he knew, Geno was raised without a family, practically raising two little brothers while also raising himself. He had no formal training in politics, or ettiquitte, and certainly no experience beyond his magic academy, and yet in moments like these, among the wonders of the world, being treated as one of the important people, he managed to keep such composure. He was stoic, and so handsome. 

   He had to draw his dark sockets forward again. Focus on the task at hand. In just a few minutes you're facing the monster of negativity and darkness himself. He told himself. He was not afraid, but he didn't know what to expect. It couldn't hurt to be cautious. 

   And so in silence they walked, down halls that felt more like a forest stroll steeped in morning grey, before they came to an open arch. 

   Beyond it, stood a large hall. At the farthest point sat thrones. Two large ones, two small ones, the usual amount, though Reaper imagined it must be lonely when he others are so woefully empty. 

   As they approached, Reaper could spot the figures there. Three, stood just before the thrones, at the base of a few steps which separated floor from seat. 

   One, was a skeleton who was clearly a servant. They stood with an empty silver platter tucked under their arm. Soft white eyelights turned to the approaching party, before they disappeared as the servant bowed. This drew the attention of the other two figures, before the servant was dismissed without a word. 

   The other two were... quite small. Reaper likely towered at least a head over both of them even without floating. The one wore the mask of a black panther, the only details striking from beneath his shawl being striking white eyelights. They were bright, and focused on Reaper without fear. Dust no doubt, one of the criminals, murderer and smuggler.

   Then the last. He held a cane in one hand, and was draped in wonderfully tailored fabric. A cloak perhaps two sizes too large for him trailed on the ground, and one simple Cyan eyelight protruded from behind an owlish mask as he turned to observe their approach. 

   It was only as they were a few paces away, as Dust bowed and as Reaper thought of who this might be, that the pieces lined up. 

   An owl mask, Cyan magic, dark clothes. This was the King of this kingdom. 

   As they came to a hault, Cross circled around to stand with Horror, neither of them giving a second glance to, who Reaper could only assume was, their King. 

   "The King Reaper, delivered as promised. It's a pleasure." Dust practically mumbled, his voice not bothering to show so much as an inflection at the words. 

   He raised from his bow naturally, and remained still as a statue as Nightmare, small, small Nightmare, closed the distance. 

   "Reaper. It is a pleasure to see your trip was smooth. It's truly an honor to have your presence here today." Nightmare did not bow fully, but it was enough to show respect. "As well as your Royal Wizard. I do hope that you will be able to locate that who went missing." He then said, directly addressing Geno, who stood silent at Reaper's side. No doubt just as taken aback.

   He took only a moment to ponder just how young the king sounded. His voice was not deep, nor imposing, nothing he had expected from the rumors and allegations. It was bordering on the type of uncertain pitch developed by acne-ridden teenagers, though he did well to control its tilt. 

   He hoped his surprise didn't show through in his empty sockets. That his mouth hadn't twitched in confusion upon his realization. 

   "It's an honor to be invited, Nightmare. I have been eager to meet you and finalize our discussions." Reaper replied easily, "Not to mention, in all my years I've never had the pleasure of visiting your land, let alone your castle." 

   I'd didn't need to be said. It hovered in the air between them, clear as day. Clear as the sun that rose over the castle hours ago. That no one had visited this land on purpose in decades. That they'd isolated themselves besides a few strenuous allies. Reaper never had reason to visit before now. 

   "Well, I imagined that we might finalize our contracts tomorrow after breakfast. For now, I'd like to offer you a tour of the castle and have you see I intend to be true to my word." Nightmare offered, extending a hand outwards. For a shake. 

   Reaper, after not a moment of hesitation, took Nightmare's outstretched hand. His hand, buried beneath a dark glove not unlike Reaper's own, felt small. His shake was firm and confident, and their eye-contact didn't waver, but Reaper couldn't help but feel that something was deeply wrong. 

   Those bones were frail. Thin. He imagined if he even squeezes his fist a bit more they might snap between his fingers. 

   They couldn't have been the same bones of the king who the public had known. A tall, dark, imposing figure with tendrils of darkness and an aura of doom dripping in his wake. The king who could hold off crowds of people at a time, who was given the powerful magic of the ritual. 

   And just like that he took his hand back, and he grinned loosely. Nightmare watched him, before nodding. Almost to himself. 

   Nightmare steadied himself with his cane, before turning to a door off to the side, which seemed to be opened now. 

   "We'd better be off, then. The castle is large." He prompted, letting Dust take the lead as he fell into step beside where Reaper floated. Horror and Cross trailed them as they exited. "I hope you will excuse the escort. My elite knights, Dust, Horror, and Cross. I've asked them to keep a close eye on the lot of us during your stay, to ensure nothing goes awry." Nightmare supplied. 

   Reaper gazed ahead at Dust for a moment, never letting his easy grin fall from his face. "No harm in a little extra security, I can see the appeal." He reassured the king, and noticed, just barely, and Night's shoulders relaxed. They'd been tense beneath the cloak. That big, heavy cloak. 

   Something was wrong here, he was sure of it, but whoever this was, this was who he'd been speaking to over letters all this time. He was sure of it. 

.

   The day to follow consisted of Nightmare and his knights leisurely guiding Reaper and Geno from place to place. The site where the Royal Guard trained, the library, the armory, the Court and the extensive advisors (who were, very notably, largely peasants), back to the library, and in and out of the dining room to eat meals. 

   Over the course of these visits, Reaper noticed quite a bit on his own. 

   He noticed the way that Nightmare always had one of his knights to his back. Not on purpose, he imagined, they seemed to seamlessly slide into position if they noticed he had a blindspot. And speaking of his knights, Reaper noticed he was one short. Killer. The first. His mind had informed him. Serial killer, the most violent and unpredictable of the four. Missing. It was unsettling. 

   He also noticed the servants. Nightmare seemed to know every person who served him. By name. And absurdly, he thanked them. Summoned them that way. Monsters and humans alike, Nightmare spoke to them amicably. Last Reaper knew, servants might as well have doubled as sacrifices in this place. 

   Along that same thought, he noticed a very specific servant. One who seemed to tend to Nightmare directly. The knights, Reaper, and Geno all seemed to have servants at random. Nightmare was cared for specifically by that same servant who'd been in the throne room. Food, it was at every meal. Strange. 

   At at meals, the others removed their masks, each revealing their skulls without hesitancy. Nightmare only lifted his enough to take a bite. Reaper only caught a glimpse of pearly white bone. 

   Nightmare did not share this sentimentality with his guards. At least, not as far as Reaper could tell. His men, aside from the Knights, seemed contented to stay far from their King. 

   This was their King, though. He was certain now. 

   After dinner, Nightmare said he had better retire early, and informed them that they were welcome to roam as they pleased, and that Horror would watch over their quarters whenever they chose to turn in. 

   Nightmare had exited, leaning heavily on that cane of his. Reaper wondered to himself, then to Geno, whether the dark king had been injured. It seemed likely. Perhaps he had taken the treaty as a claim to secure power even as his health declined... but no, he seemed so young. Younger than should have been possible. With how he had been so enthusiastic about his vast collection of books, or as he described the trade routes overtop a large updated map of the continents. 

   They had the night, and Reaper knew he would not be breaking this treaty, no matter how... underwhelming Nightmare was in size and power. He seemed to be making headway for change. No sigils, no rituals, no blood pacts. Nightmare had ambition that not many had anymore. He respected it fully. 

   It was after breakfast that they would sign the treaty, and lock Nightmare's copy safely away. Then, Reaper would work to send out his first search party. After, of course, Nightmare introduced the two to his Royal Wizard. 

   The man had come up in many of their letters as a fire-power expert, and Nightmare seemed to take pride in him. Reaper only hoped Geno would get along with him. Maybe it would get his mind off of the impending search. 

[always-a-joyful-note]

The more I think of this OP's drawing and description of the i7 anniversary AU, the more I realise that the Au Is literally the i7 boys living their besy lives as their canon self's greatest failures

[tokruta]

I’m starting to hc Miguel as Miguel Rivera (from Coco)’s great grandson.

It’s mostly because I’ve been doing my family tree for a good while now, so most of my free time is occupied with tracking down Mexican ancestors, looking for resources to better understand the different settings they lived in, reading old Spanish handwritten records, etc. So, with genealogy on the brain, and seeing some names repeated down family lines…I think having Miguel O’Hara be descended from Miguel Rivera would be a neat lil idea.

Like, imagine little Conchata growing up in Mexico with a famous musician grandfather who loves her and dotes on her and her cousins. Yes, he’s a famous musician, but he’s a family man first and is always ready to pass down stories from his life and his loved ones, dead and living. She loves her grandfather so much she decided to name her firstborn son after him.

She wasn’t always the best mom, especially to Miguel, but she passed down those stories and traditions, including singing and a love for music. And Miguel grows up loving to sing, and being good at it but keeping it to himself and Gabriel because George hated to hear it.

Gabriel, on top of being a good artist, is a pretty damn good guitar player and also has a great voice. He mostly keeps it on the down low, though, even in adulthood.

Miguel didn’t pick up any instruments, but he sometimes wishes he picked up the violin before he became Spider-Man. Instead, he let Gabriela pick out an instrument she wanted to play, and if she happened to pick the violin, the onions that manifested were a complete coincidence.

Plus, it’s literally canon that Miguel goes to Mexico to celebrate Día de Los Muertos and that his suit in the comics was one he wore to the festivals. I think it’s better for that to be a thing he does bc the holiday is a big deal in his family rather than bc it’s an excuse to party or whatever.

His mother had an ofrenda and so does he.

Miguel Rivera is still alive (he was born in like 2005, he could totally still be alive in the 2090s and 2100s, so he is in my hc ☺️) so Miguel visits him in Mexico, too. Miguel is shy about singing in front of anybody, but his bisabuelo is able to bring him out of his shell, especially by singing his old songs that Miguel grew up listening to.

The more I think about it, the more attached I become to this hc.

Now I want to write a fic where Miguel is visiting a dimension in the 2020s (616B, 1610B, etc) and he happens to see that a young Mexican musician is starting to trend, and it’s his bisabuelo Miguel as a young man 🥹 so he buys tickets and flies to Mexico 🥹 to watch him live 🥹 and yes he knows this isn’t his bisabuelo but he is as close as he can get to a young Miguel Rivera at the start of his long and successful career and it just hits him in the soul 🥹

And if Miguel Rivera happens to notice a 6’9” giant at his show, who looks strangely familiar, watching him perform like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen… who’s to say.

[quillandink333]

God every time I see pics of the BTS boys now I’m just like “Kazuma…with…AgustD blond hair…… Kazuma with….Jack in the Box makeup….. Kazuma with Jungkook lip piercing…….. Kazuma….with….V photofolio….frilly suits…antique jewellery….. hhrrrfhhfhghjbhhh…”

[boystolemyname]

The Gang Starts a Band.

Idk I just thought it would be fun. I think Luna would probably play the theremin but the keytar just looks visually cooler.

[starry-bi-sky]

catch me looking up nightingale symbolisms for tales of the passerine. if danny's using the name of a songbird for a hero name, regardless of familial connections, i will utilize the symbolism tied to the bird. Anyways general gist of the nightingale symbolism i've seen, other than what wikipedia told me, is that nightingales were frequently symbolisms of spring renewal, loss/death, love, etc. catch me about to incorporate music into Danny's character

[riptide98]

hey. I have such ideas

[clios-purls]

Sometimes, sometimes a fic is marketed so directly at you, that you have simply no choice but to spend all day reading it

[wiredsmi1e]

thinking about musician au suzie yet again tonight .

[softedgessculptures]

I need to make a drawing about aot musician au e EJ the don of cherry's fic or ill sure ill get crazy

[kindahoping4forever]

do u think he’s in LA already? orrr

Yes, Ash has posted a few stories from LA recently. By my personal observation (🤓), he actually flew to Aus before the rest of the band and spent the majority of November there before heading out on tour. It looks like he came back to LA sometime last week.

[orcelito]

Also me loosely researching the classical music industry in japan and finding some westerner getting ripped to SHREDS in some reddit post. I was legit reading this comment aloud to my coworker bc I was aghast at how brutal they were being (but also kinda amused bc they were. Kind of right.)