#// idk if I can keep up with this but I kinda want to do it

[bardicindignation]

okay okay okay so bear with me here, and keep in mind that a. I haven't watched the bad batch or anything Star Wars has put out since the Mandalorian season 2 and b. It's been a minute since I've listened to WTNV and I've only listened up to ep 146.

So! here we go!

I stand by my casting for Padme, Anakin, and Qui-Gon, but I actually think that Obi-Wan isn't the Steve Carlsberg of this AU-he's the Man in the Tan Jacket. I've read at least one WTNV fic where the Man in the Tan jacket is Cecil's brother that he has no memory of and I know this god jossed by later canon but I really liked the theory! But in this, he's not Padme's "brother" he's Anakin's, and Anakin is the one who has some kind of (Palpatine fuckery induced) memory issues. (more on this later)

I spent some time debating with myself over who would be the Tamika Flynn equivalent, was kinda waffling between Sabine and Ahsoka but then! It occured to me that, hey, Ahsoka's kind of close to Padme in canon, and she did the whole like wandering journey thing...So Ahsoka gets to be Dana Cardinal! (without the becoming the mayor part. I don't think that would suit Ahsoka tbh.) So, Sabine is our preteen explosive revolutionary, joined by Ezra. For no reason other than vibes, Dooku is definitely The Woman From Italy Serenno. (...Or maybe that's Mother Talzin and she's the Woman From Dathomir idk). Hmmm...alternatively, Dooku is Marcus Vanston and the Erika's are Force Ghosts. Yeah, Mother Talzin can be the Woman from Dathomir

The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home was kinda tricky, and frankly I feel like the Star Wars character who most matches in terms of Gremlin Vibes is Yoda, so we've got the Little Green Troll Who Secretly Lives In Your Home. (Look. It would be so funny to put Yoda in a mayoral race.)

Cut Lawquane, you know, the farmer.

As for Steve Carslberg, the honor goes to Sola Naberrie, towards whom Padme has an animosity two parts concealment of Sola's relationship to Padme Amidala (an open secret) and one part sibling aggravation.

I was super close to having Maul be Lauren (evil, talks too much) but then I thought it would be more fun if he, Savage, and Feral all make up a literally three-headed dragon.

As far as Clones go, I think that they were secretly created by SepCorp (Seperatist/Strex Corp). The Coruscant Guard is the Sherrif's secret police, Rex and the 501st are planted with the scientists, etc. SepCorp thought that it would be much harder to have this infiltration, but the town immediately accepted clones existing as Normal (I mean, look, they all know that Amidala is like at least 4 people)(with some exceptions).

The whole chips thing doesn't come into play until the SepCorp takeover, and are pretty quickly jail broken by Sabine & co with help from Anakin, and (virtually, Ahsoka.) Echo is Fey/The WZZZ numbers station (or the ARC station) and also helps free the rest of the clones from the mind control.

Now, as for Obi-Wan/Man in the Tan Jacket, Anakin, and what the fuck is Palpatine doing, anyway?

Anakin caught the attention of Palpatine (aka the secret CEO of SepCorp) shortly after he began attending college. Palpatine proceeded to spend Anakin's undergrad grooming him to be his right hand in Strex Corp. (Maybe he was posing as a professor or smth). This plan got messed up when, upon starting his graduate program, Anakin ended up roommates with Obi-Wan Kenobi (who had recently left Nighvale after his worst fight with Qui-Gon yet.) Obi-Wan (unfortunately for Palpatine) forms a fast and strong (if sometimes contentious) bond with Anakin, which results in Anakin changing his focus for his graduate degree to something less what Palpatine wants and more what Anakin is interested in.

Palpatine is Not Amused. When it becomes clear that Anakin is no longer interested in filling the job that Palpatine has so generously created or him in Strexcorp he decides that something Must Be Done. He enacts some kind of curse or smth on Obi-Wan, removing all memories anyone has of him, and making it very nearly impossible to form new ones, beyond that he's a Man in the Tan Jacket.

Infuriatingly, this does not immediately result in Anakin running into the loving arms of SepCorp, but Palpatine is able to pull some strings and get him into the research team destined for...oooh! Starvale, of course the town is Starvale!

But back to Padme! I feel like this is a great vehicle for Padme to be every bit as insane abt Anakin as he is about her bc...let's be real. She absolutely is; just because she seems to be more chill by comparison doesn't make this actually true. Padme is not the Normal One. There is no Normal One.

Also, given the handmaidens, this has interesting implications for the double incident, huh? Like, do Padme and the handmaidens take the doubles arriving in stride, or do they feel at a deep, instinctive level that these are Not The Same Thing? Does the eldritch station management actually know the difference between Padme!Amidala or, say, Sabe!Amidala?

Now, I think that Palpatine is also Leonard Burton, and was Padme's radio mentor. With all the concerning implications involved etc. He somehow still doesn't really get how Starvale works. (Maybe a faliure to keep Padme under his thumb prompted him to search outside Starvale and ultimately find Anakin). Dex runs the Moonlite All-Nite Diner.

Not sure who the Apache Tracker would be...unless he's Quinlan Vos deep undercover (Obi-Wan, possibly the only person who knows that it's him, will never let him live this down) and fakes his death. idk tho, this one's tricky.

Mace Windu is the mayor. This man deals with So Much Shit in canon, he deserves the chance to be a little unhinged, and to have mayoral powers, as a treat. Plus, he's canonically a theater performer. He could do the drama, he Has The Range.

And uhhh, yeah! that's what I've got!

(there's another version of this set in the GFFA where a Supposed To Be Dead Padme is doing like, a rebel broadcast, Obi-Wan is Old Woman Josie, and Anakin/Vader is both Carlos and Steve Carlsberg. "And Vader came around to kill a bunch of people with his stupid, perfect, shiny helmet, and his sexystupid murderwalk. He's the worst person to ever exist and I defintiely, definitely, hate him. It's just and only hatred.")(And yes, this is partially inspired by hometown blues)

Natalie Portman wearing a Panasonic FM Stereo Headset RF-60 from the 1970s 

[slushnubwrites]

idk just anything with a sub dae-ho pls i see barely any sub dae-ho 😔🙏

He is def a sub 😝😫

SMUT Kang Dae-Ho

NSFW: Smut/Sexual content, Sub Dae-HoxFem reader, Public Kinda?

————————————————

“f-fuck y/n” Dae-Ho whimpered attempting to not wake up other players around you. “Shhh be quiet baby people could hear you” you softly whispered as you quickened your pace on his dick.

It was lights out but neither you or Dae-Ho could sleep. So you got an idea while you both cuddled in the small bed covered by the light blanket. You knew he’d been wanting this since earlier but he was always too shy to ask thinking it was wrong.

He jolted at the pace signaling how close he was “You like that baby”? you asked him listening to his faint choppy breaths. “Y-yes” he whimpered a little too loud at your question.

“You need to be a little more quiet or do you want people to hear you be so whiny for me”? at your teasing question you felt his dick twitch and harden even more. “Oh you would”? you teased quickening your pace even more.

He only whimpered at your words feeling the knot in his stomach grow more. “Would you like it if people saw you moaning and whimpering my name begging to cum”? you teased him.

“S-stop” he whined embarrassed that you caught him. “What am I wrong”? you continued to mock him moving your finger to roll onto his tip with a slow pace.

He softly moaned at your action not responding to your question. You began to quicken the pace of your rolling finger causing him to grip your wrist. “Let go or I won’t let you cum” you demanded.

Quickly he let go allowing you to continue your movement on his dick. You go back to moving your hand up and down his dick faster than before. “You still haven’t answered my question” you whisper slowing your pace.

He whines at the feeling not wanting you to stop and too embarrassed to answer. You completely let go of his dick causing him to whimper “No please” you couldn’t see in the dark but you knew his eyes were teary begging for desperate release.

You wait a few seconds before suddenly gripping onto his dick starting your movements up again. “Answer me” you soft but harshly demand, he whimpers at your tone knowing he won’t cum unless he listens.

“N-no you’re not wr-wrong, fuck y/n pl-please” God he sounded so desperate and whiny under your control. “Good job baby” you whisper moving your finger back to his tip circling it faster.

His dick starts to twitch at the feeling, and he grips onto the mattress. He moans a little too loud but you don’t care anymore focused on your movements and his noises.

“You wanna cum”? you ask him knowing the answer. “Y-yes please, please” he answers breathlessly ready to cum into your hand. “Beg” you ordered him moving back to going up and down with your hand squeezing it just how he loved it.

He whimpered at your command embarrassed and turned on at the same time. “Pl-please please I need to cum” you go faster as you feel his dick start to twitch and his body starts to shake “more” you order. “ngh- fuck please please I need to cum y/n just for you please” at his desperate obedient words you finally allow him to let go “cum”.

His body jolts and shakes at your permission to cum “thank you thank you thank you y/n f-fuck” he repeats feeling the knot in his stomach snap. You keep going as him cum starts to drip down and you can feel it on your hands.

Once done you take out your cum covered hand and in the dark lean into his ear sucking his cum off your fingers. “You taste so good Dae-Ho” you whisper before licking his ear. You couldn’t see each other but you knew his cheeks were red.

[atlabeth]

(please) spare me indignity

pt 3

pairing: spencer reid x fem gideon!reader

summary: you and spencer spend more time together. it's bad, then it's good, then it's something else altogether.

a/n: continuing the gideon!reader series! a whole lot of this is arguing because they love each other fr. sorry this took so long, for some reason i had a really hard time finding my footing here but i hope you enjoy!! reader is a victim of the sassy man apocalypse bc this may be s1/2 spencer but he is not going to not be standing up for himself!! have this new banner that i made to try and help with my inspiration. title is from nothing new by rio romero

wc: 5k

warning(s): r and spence argue some more. angst, hurt w/o comfort, then hurt with comfort! idk theyre kinda sweet

You and Spencer spend the next six and a half hours watching movies. 

You make it through Goodfellas and you only tell him to be quiet twelve times. You take a break to get water and make popcorn, which was so generously provided in your grocery supply, and while you’re doing it, Spencer insists on picking the next one. You end up watching Psycho, and you don’t think he lets a single scene go by without explaining the meaning behind it. 

You choose Notting Hill after, and he knows just as much. He picks Halloween—it doesn’t really help your stalker anxieties, and Spencer apologizes profusely when you bring it up, but you still end up finishing it. Next you go for Pointe Grosse Blank, then Spencer picks Kolya, a Russian film that he specifically put into the box. 

There are subtitles, but he spends half the time translating for you anyway—apparently there are nuances to the script that an English translation doesn’t get compared to the original Russian, and that would be a tragedy. 

He’s in the middle of his third rant going on seven minutes when you finally break. 

“Okay,” you say as you reach for the remote, “I can’t do this anymore.”

You do a double take when your hand meets another instead of hard plastic, and you see Spencer beat you to it. You pull your hand away as soon as possible, feeling your face heat from annoyance.

“What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” he echoes. “The movie’s not over yet.”

“I can’t take any more of your rambling,” you say. “I’m cutting you off.”

He frowns. “We have to finish the movie first.” 

“What are you, a broken record?”

“I couldn’t be a broken record because I said two different things,” he protests. “Besides, what else are you going to do?” 

“Unpack my things? Read a book? Sit in silence staring at the wall in my room?” You shrug as you stand up and walk over to the kitchen. “I’ve got a lot of options.” 

“Gideon told me not to let you out of my sight,” Spencer says, standing up as well. 

“You can see me pretty well from there,” you say. “You don’t have to invade every bit of my privacy.” 

“I— I kind of do,” he says. “The whole point of a safe house is to keep you safe. If you’re off doing your own thing, it’s not really safe.”

“It’s not like I’m leaving!” You throw up your hands in exasperation. “What, are you going to sleep with me too? Make sure I don’t go anywhere in the middle of the night?” 

It’s almost funny how fast his face flushes bright red. You’ve got a feeling he doesn’t have a lot of experience with this sort of thing. 

“That’s what I thought,” you say. “Keep watching your movie if you want. Just leave me alone.” 

You feel his eyes on your back as you storm off to your room. The childish part of you wants to slam the door, but you decide to throw Spencer the smallest bone and leave it open. 

It’s not his fault that you hate him, and that just makes you hate him even more. He gets to come out of this the bigger person, a saint for putting up with your various deficiencies while keeping you safe from a stalker. You’re just the difficult, ungrateful, estranged bastard daughter of the most deified man in the Behavioral Analysis Unit who can’t set her personal grudges aside for her own good. 

You shove your duffel bag into the bed with a little too much force. You unzip it, deciding to try and occupy yourself with unpacking. You’re here for the indefinite future, so you might as well make yourself at home. 

You can’t help the dry laugh that comes at the thought. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt at home anywhere. 

This might be the worst thing about this whole situation. You’ve got a stalker out there, and it’s making you do all this bullshit introspection against your will. It’s got you thinking about your dad and your relationship with him, and thinking about Spencer Reid and how he’s replaced you in your father’s life without even really knowing about it because he didn’t know about you until he walked into your dad’s office a month ago.

Ten minutes pass in a blur before you’re knocked out of it by a rapping on your door. You turn to see Spencer standing in the doorway, expression unreadable.

“What?” you ask.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says. “I’m just checking in.”

“I’m still alive,” you say. “Nothing exciting happened in the five seconds I was gone.”

“It was ten minutes and thirty two seconds, actually,” he says. “But— but good.”

Again, more silence passes between you. You look up at him from your pile of clothes after thirty seconds. 

“Are you just going to stand there?”

“I— I don’t know what else to do,” he stammers.

“Didn’t you say you did something like this before?” you ask. “Guarded some girl from her stalker?”

Spencer nods. “She was a lot easier to get along with.”

You roll your eyes. “Somebody out there wants to kill me to get back at my dad. Sorry that I’m not the pinnacle of happiness.” You make a point to avoid his gaze. “But what I’m trying to say is that you’ve done this all before. You should have some kind of idea of what to do besides bothering me.”

“How am I bothering you?” Spencer asks in exasperation. “I’ve said three sentences to you!”

“Everything you do bothers me, boy genius,” you say. “I thought you would have figured that out by now.” 

“I—” He looks like he wants to say more, but instead he just clamps his mouth shut and shakes his head before he walks away. 

You stare down at your pile of clothes, largely unfolded and scattered around the bed. The silence doesn’t give you the satisfaction you thought it would. 

It only lasts for all of thirty seconds though, and you don’t have time to linger in the discomfort—you hear footsteps, heavier ones this time, and you look up to see Spencer round the corner once again. 

“What is your problem with me?” he blurts out. 

You frown. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me,” Spencer nods. “You hate your dad, fine— but he’s not here for you to fight with, so you’re taking it out on me. It’s classic displacement, and you don’t get to take it out on me.”

“Why not?” you ask. 

“Because it— it’s not fair!” he sputters. “I didn’t do anything to you— I didn’t even know you existed until a month ago!” 

“Well, gosh, boy genius,” you say, “I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure it out yourself.”

“Stop calling me boy genius!” he exclaims. “We’re the same age!”

“Then stop acting like one,” you retort. “I know you’ve got a psychology degree, but you don’t need to use them on me whenever you can.” 

He frowns, his mouth opening for a second before he closes it. 

“Were you going to ask how I knew that before you realized the obvious answer?” you ask. 

“No,” he says. 

“Yes, you were.” You continue folding your clothes. “You went to Caltech, MIT, and Yale, even though it was your safety school. You’ve got three PhDs, two BAs, and you’re working on a philosophy degree, but you’re not done with it yet.” You shrug. “A little difficult to make it to classes with all the FBI stuff.” 

“…Does he really talk about me that much?” Spencer’s voice is quieter than it was before. 

“Oh, yeah,” you say. You set a finished pair of jeans to the side then look at him. “I graduated from college too. Granted, it was a couple years ago, not when I was 17, but I think it still warrants a little support.”

“You went to George Mason,” Spencer says. 

Your movements stutter. You weren’t expecting him to actually know.

“Yeah,” you say. Your heart skips a beat. “How do you know?”

Has he talked about you to the team before? Sure, they didn’t know you existed before you showed up out of the blue, but maybe he showed them a picture after it happened. Your mom carries one of you in your cap and gown in her wallet—maybe he got a hold of one and Spencer caught a glimpse of that. Maybe you just missed it and he does have a picture of you on his desk. Maybe—

“You have a sweatshirt for it,” he says with a gesture. You look where his finger is pointing, and sure enough, your GMU sweatshirt is tangled up with a couple of other crewnecks.

“…Of course,” you say. You don’t know why you even dared to hope. “Because it’s more likely that you’d notice something like that than it is for my dad to talk about me.”

Spencer says your name, and you hate the sympathy in it. 

“No.” You cut him off before he can get any further. “Don’t try to defend him. You know,” you huff a cold, humorless laugh, “he missed my graduation, too. Two separate dates for commencement and my actual school’s ceremony, one 45 minute car ride, and he couldn’t make it to either one.”

“You don’t know how busy we are,” Spencer tries again. “We work weekends and holidays and around the clock— sometimes we get called in at 3am to stay in some random town for weeks at a time, and there’s nothing we can do about it! I— I mean, we’ve had three days off in the past 47 days and—”

“That’s why I have a problem with you!” you cry out, throwing the shirt in your hand onto your bed as you turn to face him. “Because I’m twenty-four years old, and I’ve lived an hour away from my dad for the past six years, but his team that he spends all his time with didn’t even know I existed until I showed up at your office.” You take a step forward, anger resurging inside of you. “Because I threw away a chance at an Ivy to get to see him more, just to deal with the same bullshit as usual. Because I worry about him dying every single day he’s in the field, and he can’t even give me a phone call at the end of it all—” another step forward— “and even in the middle of this shitshow, you think you have a right to defend him— to- to tell me how to feel about him!”

You move even closer, close enough to see his wrinkled button-up is partially untucked, his lips are slightly parted, and his stupid doe eyes—that haven’t left yours—with his stupid dilated pupils, and you jab your finger in his chest. 

“Because all I ever wanted is my father’s affection,” your voice breaks, and you hate the way it makes you feel, “and he’d rather build an entirely new life with an entirely new kid than give it to me.” 

You push your way past him, making sure to shoulder-check him on your way out. You don’t look back as you forge your way to the bathroom (that you unfortunately have to share), even though his gaze burns into your back. 

You close and lock the door. It’s childish, you know, but you need to be alone right now. You can’t stand to be around him.

Spencer just— he irritates you in a way that no one else ever has. He’s your age and more accomplished than you could ever dream to be, with almost six times the degrees and a much better job, and probably a family that loves him. Who wouldn’t love him with everything he’s done?

You, apparently.  

You plant your hands on the countertop as you stare into the mirror. Your usual dark circles have become more pronounced over the past month, and you can’t help a wry laugh at the thought. All that trouble sleeping and it was for the wrong damn reason. 

If you knew someone was watching you, you would have moved out of Virginia months ago. But maybe this bastard would have found you anyway. If Spencer’s profiling is right and he’s going after you because of your dad, you don’t think much could really dissuade him. 

Tears pool at your waterline, and you wipe them away with a rough hand before they can manifest into something more. You slump back against the opposing wall as you continue to stare at yourself. 

You’re pathetic and you can’t even find it in yourself to care. 

You hear the sound of footsteps once more and you wrap your arms around your midsection. This chill won’t go away. 

“…Are you still alive?” a hesitant voice calls. 

You bite back a remark. “I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?” 

“No.” You don’t know what makes you answer honestly. 

A beat of silence passes. You really do feel like a kid. You’re talking to him through the door because you just yelled at him and Spencer is still being the bigger person. 

“Can I help at all?”

This answer comes a little quicker. “No.”

Again, more silence.

“Okay.” Spencer pauses, and the footsteps start again. His voice is a little closer the next time he speaks. “Just… let me know when you’re turning in. So I know you’re still alive.”

You huff. He can’t even stick to his guns and hate you like you hate him for ten minutes. “I don’t think I’ll be dying anytime soon.”

“You never know,” he says. “Spontaneous human combustion might not be proven beyond pseudoscientific concepts, but there’s a first time for everything.”

The laugh that comes out of you is unexpected, both in its lightness and occurrence at all. “Keep an ear out for the smoke alarm, then.”

“If you smell anything burning, stop, drop and roll,” he says. “Make sure you don’t run. All it’ll do is add to the oxygen and feed the fire.”

“Okay,” you say. “…I still don’t like you.”

You swear you can hear the smile in his words. “I know.” 

-

You wake up when the smoke alarm goes off. 

It’s a very rude awakening. It jolts you out of your very uneasy sleep to unfamiliar surroundings—in your disoriented state, you almost forget where you are. 

Right. You’re in a safe house in the middle of nowhere because someone is stalking you. How could you possibly forget?

You stumble out of bed, rubbing your eyes to try and assuage some of your exhaustion as you leave your room. 

“Is the place on fire?” you ask through a yawn. 

“No!” Spencer exclaims, sounding more panicked than usual. That straightens your back and speeds your pace. “No, everything’s fine—” 

You smell smoke, and as you come around the corner, you see him waving his hands overtop the toaster trying to dispel said smoke. You can’t help but laugh, and you actually smile when he gives you the most helpless look. 

“I’m so good at so many other things.”

“What are you trying to do?” you ask wryly. “Burn this house down to try and get a better one?” 

“This wouldn’t have started a fire,” Spencer says. “Toaster fires usually spread because they’re below wooden cupboards, which catch easily and spread everywhere else.” He gestures at the toaster, which he has plugged in to an outlet on the side of the island. “No cupboards, no house fire.”

“You started this because you were making toast?” you ask. 

He flushes. “I’m used to the toaster I have at home. I have the settings worked out perfectly there. This one is all wrong.” 

You sigh and shake your head. “Just… hit the reset button, and open the door. It’ll be fine.” 

“I can’t open the door,” he says. “It goes against the safety thing.”

“Then open a window.”

“Making it easier to get in here in any way goes against the safety thing,” he says. 

“So we have to just deal with the smoke?” you ask in exasperation. 

Spencer hits the vent button on the microwave, and the fan whirs into action. “No?”

You shake your head in disbelief as he then reaches up to hit the button on the smoke alarm. His t-shirt lifts with the movement—your eyes drift to the bare strip of skin, and you immediately look away when you realize. 

“Where’s the coffee in here?” you ask, clearing your throat as you start sifting through drawers. “I’ll be even worse to deal with if I don’t have caffeine.” 

“I already brewed a fresh pot,” Spencer says, gesturing with his head. “Half and half is in the fridge, and sugar is in the cabinet.” 

“Oh,” you say. You stop what you’re doing, your hands lingering above the drawer handle. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

You see him shrug out of your peripherals. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Because I was a total asshole to you last night, you want to say. Because I’ve been awful to you since I met you and you refuse to fight back and give me a better reason to hate you. 

“Because you didn’t need to,” you finally say. Good one. 

“I did. So you’re going to have to deal with it.” Spencer takes the burnt toast out and throws them in the trash can, talking while he does it. “You know, it’s actually a rumor that burnt toast contains carcinogens and can increase the chance of cancer. Acrylamide forms when you burn food, but researchers haven’t found a link between starchy foods with high amounts of acrylamide and cancer.” 

You hum in some form of acknowledgement as you take a mug out of the cabinet and fill it from the pot. You take a sip and grimace—it’s not the best, but it’s caffeinated. After three years of shitty gas station coffee throughout college, you can deal with it. 

“How did you sleep?” Spencer asks. 

“Fine,” you say. 

He frowns. “Really?” 

“Yes,” you say, a little rougher. “The dark circles come with the model.” 

“There are a lot of causes other than sleep deprivation,” Spencer says. “Contact dermatitis, hyperpigmentation, dehydration, alcoholism, stress—” 

“Got plenty of that,” you interrupt. 

“Even genetics can play a part in it,” he says. 

You huff. “I think this is one thing I can’t blame my dad for. I haven’t slept since the nineties.”

“Well, you should try,” Spencer says. “The blood vessels around your eyes don’t constrict like they should when you’re sleep deprived, which means your blood vessels dilate, which increases blood in the area, and that gives you dark circles.”

“Wow,” you say wryly. “I really look that bad with them?” 

“I— that—” Spencer’s face flushes red as he stutters, and you hide the slightest smile with your mug— “that’s not what I mean! I’m just trying to give advice to help—” 

“I know.” You set your mug back down, not able to fully bite back your amusement. “I was joking, Spencer.” 

“Oh,” he says. “That’s… new.” 

“Am I not allowed to joke?” 

“It just doesn’t seem like you,” Spencer says. “Especially after last night.” 

“I’m too tired to fight with you right now,” you sigh. “Enjoy your break.” 

He clears his throat as he takes two fresh pieces of bread out, then looks at your mug. “You drink it black?” 

“It’s not coffee if you don’t,” you say. “It— it’s a sugary mess.” 

“It is not!” he exclaims. “It still has the same amount of caffeine, and it’s still coffee—” 

“No it isn’t!” you laugh, and you nod at his mug. “How much sugar did you put in there?” 

“A couple spoonfuls but—” 

“Spoonfuls?”

“But it’s how I like it!” Spencer defends. 

“Don’t you have some facts about how harmful excessive sugar consumption is?” you ask. 

“Of course I do,” he says. “I also have some about the benefits of black coffee, but I’m not going to tell you now.”

“Wow,” you say. “I’m so hurt.” 

He shakes his head as he slots two more pieces of bread into the toaster. “And to think, I was trying to make breakfast for you.” 

Again, that gives you pause. Why does he keep trying to do nice things for you?” 

“Don’t bother.” You pick up your mug and go into the living room. “I don’t really eat breakfast anyways.” 

“That’s not healthy,” he calls after you. 

“Most things I do aren’t,” you respond. “What’s on the agenda today?” 

“Skipping breakfast puts you at a higher chance of heart disease,” he says. 

“Then I guess we won’t have to worry about the spontaneous combustion, will we?” You look back at him. “What’s on the agenda?” 

Spencer sighs. He’s given up momentarily, it seems. “Gideon’s going to call me in thirty-two minutes for an update. The whole team has been focusing solely on your case.” 

You perk up. The coffee warms your hands through the mug but it doesn’t fully assuage the chill down your spine. 

“Do they have any leads?” 

“I don’t know,” Spencer says. “Gideon hasn’t called me yet.” 

You roll your eyes. “Do you think they have any leads?” 

“Maybe.” The toaster pops and he pulls the bread out, then starts buttering it—or trying to. His brow knots in annoyance at the stick of butter, still hard, and he pushes his glasses up with his free hand. You have to look away. “Like I said, Gideon helped start the BAU. He’s solved more cases than anyone else, and,” you feel his eyes on you, “it’s personal this time. He’s probably working around the clock.” 

“Just have to hope they get somewhere,” you murmur. Your coffee tastes even more bitter than  usual, but you drink it anyway. 

“They will,” Spencer says. “I promise.” 

“Y’know, people keep making promises they can’t keep,” you say. “I’m getting real tired of it.” 

“Well, I’m not leaving your side until they do,” he says. “And I’m going to keep you safe. So consider that promise kept.” 

“Great,” you say. “I’m stuck with you until I die or this is solved.” 

“You’re not going to die.” 

“You don’t have to take everything I say so seriously.” 

“Then don’t say everything so seriously.” 

You huff a laugh and shake your head. Spencer comes over with his plate of messily buttered toast—not very easy with fully solid sticks of butter—and sits down across from you. He holds the plate out. 

“Want one?” 

“I told you, I don’t eat breakfast.” 

“You should.” 

“Because one piece of toast will make so much of a difference,” you mock. 

“It will,” he says. “Maybe it’ll even make you happier.” 

You roll your eyes and drink more of your coffee. “Are you going to bother me all day like this?” 

Spencer took a bite of toast then shrugged. “If you’re this blase about everything relating to your health, then yes.” 

You groan as you stand up. “It’s too early to deal with you. See you in a few hours.” 

“And good morning to you too,” Spencer says wryly. You make a parting gesture with your hand in response. 

It’s been a day and a half, and not only have you argued with him twice, but he still refuses to give you anything to work with, still insists on trying to be there for you. It’s as infuriating as it is gratingly admirable. Anyone else probably would have tried to kill you by now. 

Well, you’ve already got a stalker trying to do that. 

You sigh and down half your coffee. You’ve got a long day ahead of you. 

-

Spencer doesn’t know why you not liking him bothers him so much. 

It’s illogical, but it makes sense for you. Your dad spends more time with him than he does with you, and you’re projecting your hatred for Gideon onto Spencer. Whatever. 

But it’s not just whatever, and that irks him. 

This is an assignment, simple as that. Gideon trusted him enough to put you under his protection, even if it’s for your mental health more so than your physical. It should be a point of pride, being chosen for something like this by someone like Gideon.

Spencer presses his fingers against his temple. You’re a lot, there’s no way around it. But you also claim to hate him, and he knows that’s not true. 

Yes, you argue with him. Yes, you’re short with him. Yes, he lost his temper momentarily because not even Spencer is capable of endless grace. 

But he also sees your moments of lightness throughout it all. Your brief smiles, the quips that lean towards jokes more than insults—and he notices your eyes, and the brightness that breaks through on occasion. 

He always notices your eyes.

Spencer’s phone rings in his pocket, jolting him out of whatever reverie he found himself in. He pulls it out and flips it open, then presses it to his ear. “Gideon?” 

“Reid,” he greets. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” he says. “You’re calling twenty-four minutes early.”

“We just finished a briefing,” Gideon says. “I wanted to get word to you as soon as possible.” 

Spencer sits up. “What is it?” 

“Morgan, Hotch, and Garcia have been working together to comb through my past cases and see what they’re up to now. They finally found a potential unsub,” he says. “Someone I put away a decade ago was released last year, and recent records indicate he’s back in the area.” 

“Who is it?” he asks. 

“Adam Hernandez. Also known as—” 

“The Stafford Strangler,” Spencer finishes. “He killed three people in two weeks in the 90s—classic spree killer. You caught him with David Rossi’s help.” 

“Released on good behavior, despite the victims’ families campaigning against it,” Gideon says. “You know it?” 

“Obviously,” he says. “I’ve read all of your old case files.”

Gideon chuckles, and he can almost imagine him shaking his head. “Of course you have.”

“Do you think Hernandez is your guy?” Spencer asks. 

“I’m not sure yet,” Gideon says. “We applied for a warrant—as soon as we get it, Morgan and Elle are heading his way to ask a few questions.” 

“You think he’d do something like this?” Spencer shifts his position as he frowns. “Hernandez got fired, lost his house, then went off the deep end. He killed because he didn’t see any other solution. The guy going after your daughter is a lot more emotional about all this, and—” his throat feels dry all of a sudden— “and it’s like he’s got some kind of attraction to her.” 

“You don’t need to remind me,” Gideon says roughly. “We’re going for leads where we can, and we’re still working every other angle. It doesn’t end with Hernandez.”

“...Good,” Spencer says. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help from here.” 

“You’re already doing everything I need you to do.” Gideon pauses, and he hears the creak of the chair in his office as he adjusts how he’s sitting. “How is my daughter doing?” 

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Her mood changes with the wind. One second she’s trying to start a fight with me, the next she’s trying to joke around with me. It— it’s a lot, I won’t lie.” 

“But how is she handling all of this?” he asks. “Staying in the safe house, dealing with a stalker, feeling like a sitting duck.”

“Very cynically,” Spencer says. “She keeps talking about dying or getting killed.”

Gideon sighs. “That sounds like her.” 

“She’s… she’s mad at you, mostly.” Spencer picks at a hangnail, ignoring the sharp, temporary pain. “Every time I bring you up, it lights a fuse. You’re the one thing she hates to talk about.” 

There’s nothing but silence on the other end. 

“Gideon?” he asks. “Did I lose—” 

“I’m here,” he interrupts. “Just… thinking.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Spencer says. “She’s—” 

“It is my fault,” Gideon interrupts again. “Has she told you much about her younger life?” 

“...Some,” Spencer says. 

“Like?” 

Spencer doesn’t really know what to say. He doesn’t want to just tell Gideon that you’ve told him he’s been an awful dad. That it’s really all you’ve told him. 

“You can say it, Reid,” Gideon says. “I won’t get mad.” 

“...She says you’ve missed out on her whole life,” Spencer finally says, notably quieter. “Her high school graduation, her college graduation— most of the stuff that happened in college, actually.” 

Gideon lets out a rough sigh. “I’ll always regret it.” 

“So it’s true?” Spencer asks. He’s surprised at the sharpness of his voice.  

“I don’t get to control when cases come in,” he says. 

“We’re a whole team of qualified agents,” Spencer says. “We— we always have been. Especially when you and Rossi were together. It was like the golden age of profilers.” 

“Spencer—” 

“You made it to my graduation!” he interrupts. “You were there for my chemistry PhD, and you said you would be there when I get my philosophy degree, but you couldn’t make it for your only child’s high school and college graduations?” 

“I already told you I regret it,” Gideon says. His voice is as calm as ever, and for some reason, that irks Spencer even more. “What more can I say? It’s in the past now. I can’t change what I did.”

Spencer stares at the wall. He doesn’t know why this is such a damning thing to him. 

His own dad has missed all of his graduations. He’s missed almost every part of his life. But his dad walked out—he wanted nothing to do with Spencer or his mom. 

Your dad is right here. Gideon is still around, working every day to save lives and change the world and take down monsters—but he’s still not there for you. 

He’s so close and yet he always steps out of your reach. 

“Spencer.” Gideon’s voice is tinny through the speaker, and he presses his phone back against his ear. 

“Call me back the second you get another lead,” Spencer mutters. 

He hangs up without another word. 

[hopefulidiocy]

Writers block..? SAME! I’ve had this idea for WEEKS and just never write it lol.

So imagine there’s this like legend of The Great Targaryen (reader) who lived before Rhanerya and them and she was called The Great Targaryen because she commanded like 4 dragons instead of one. (kinda like Daenerys)

So maybe she was like so powerful or whatnot a witch (idk if they rly had those back then but like, there’s dragons so bare with me lol) cast her to sleep, saying she’ll only awake in 100 years OR SOMETHING IDK YET.

But anyways, team black realizes that if they want to win they’ll need her or something so they go looking.

The find her asleep in a cave off the coast somewhere and somehow she wakes up (haven’t rly gotten there yet) and they’re all like woahhhh but she has no dragons?

They get to the top of the cliff and she kinda just faces out towards the ocean and stands there, everyone is confused. She raises her arms like A GODDESS and BOOM flying out of the ocean is DRAGONS!!!

Idk it’s a really weird concept but I had a dream like that and that’s where this came from lol.

Watcha think???

The Dragon Tamer

House of the Dragon x OC!Female!Character

Warnings: mentions of child loss, death, destruction and disease.

Characters that are my own: Efflestead the Warrior, Alina the Dragon Tamer/Demon Queen, Jocelyn the Great

A/N: I have never written something like this before and I looooved doing it <3 part two?

MINORS DNI 18+

🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉

🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉

Many tales graced the darkened walls of Westeros. They flew, invisibly, through the air as folk songs or poems; they were words, spoken from generation to generation. Efflestead’s siege on the North, battling it to great victory until all that was left was rubble and dirt and dead bodies. He was celebrated, a day commemorated to him and how he savagely killed thousands of innocents for being in his war path to the Iron Throne. He was crowned on the 10th of the Third Month, creating catastrophe and violence in his stead. But no one remembers that part. They don’t remember how he killed his way to the top, tortured those who dared to whisper in the corners of every house, how he employed spies who could’ve well been your father or brother and they would let loose their secrets and you’d be on the Wall within the hour. Most people remember him as Efflestead the Warrior King, a family man with fifteen children of his own, all just as ghastly as he was, a man of great honour - being with his wife for more than 40 years, but everyone forgot he had mistresses and often beat his wife to the point she lost more than five children. No, people forget the bad parts because they want a story they can be proud of. Efflestead’s children went on to become monarchs, Heiron being the first and rather boring King, contracting Green Fever before the Winter. Jocelyn became Queen after he died, she was a beauty, to all accounts of people who knew her but, of course, when she was murdered in the comfort of her own bed; her own brother, Aegon, was the one who distributed horrific lies and propaganda. She was a witch and bewitched a plague amongst the Smallfolk with her sixth finger and long, hanging nose that drooped over her upper lip. No one remembers that she was kind and generous to the Smallfolk, no one remembers that she cared for the health of her people and sought to change all of it.

History and myth are not kind to those who actually do good, they would rather remember those with an intriguing story that they can pick apart and leave out the bad bits.

There was one though, no recollection in any chronicle of history, no written records, just a song. Sung in the streets of the Red Keep.

A dragon descended upon the River;

His claws long and his mind clever;

A woman with eyes so black;

Came onto the shore with a crack;

She said, “Who hath come to fight?”;

When one man stepped forth, she cackled to the night;

“Is that all you have?” And so she unleashed her fury onto the innocence;

Letting them have her anguish and misguidance;

Four wild beasts arose from the dark;

Fire, blood and fury from their violent arc;

She tried, as she must, to fight with her life;

But the Smallfolk were full of strife;

They killed her with one switch of a blade;

And off her head rolled in the shade;

They rejoiced and called out;

“At last, the Demon Queen is dead! And so she will be forever at rest!”

Of course, the Smallfolk only knew the lines to a wretched song that kids would learn as they grew up in the parks and the bakeries. They would be told the Demon Queen will have you for supper! If they forbade any law. But, of course, the Demon Queen was more than a ruthless woman. First of all, she had a name… Alina Targaryen. Born to the bastard grandson of Efflestead. She was known to be a beauty, long white hair always in a braided crown, dresses that puffed around her and always glided along with her. She was kind, generous and full of wit. Many men wanted to have a slice of her, but she never allowed it, she kept herself neat and tidy for any man that would marry her.

She never did marry.

Instead found her love elsewhere. With multicoloured eggs that she grew with affection and suddenly… she was the most powerful woman in Westeros.

Being so powerful, she became a target. A target for war, for assassination, for love and temptation. But she hid out in the caves, away from human life and settled with her dragons. The song got one thing right, she did tame four dragons, she loyally loved each dragon.

Fate is a funny thing. It is what’s meant for you, even if it’s not what you want. Alina didn’t want to sleep for one hundred years, she was completely oblivious to it until the day came when the waves crashed harshly against the cave, the dragons looked at her with perplexity and so, being the brave soul she was, she opted to explore on foot. The grey waves curled up into the sky with every crash against the rock, she clung to the edge as she watched spurts of water form a woman, no eyes and no mouth, just a plain black face with wispy hair like a witch. Alone and cold, the witch whispered under her breath that sent Alina into a sleep, never to be heard from again. Until Westeros went to shit.

Around the Queens’ table at Dragonstone, Daemon sat with his elbows propped up, chewing onto his fingernails as Rhaenyra stood, stoic and strangely calm whilst Rhaeyna spoke of the dangerous plans the Greens have for Dragonstone.

“He will surely arrive with Vhagar, even with the three dragons we have cannot take her on. We all know that.” She said, sitting straight. Daemon looked up at her worried face before switching to Rhaenyra’s face, she was deep in thought, Jace behind her, pacing up and down.

“Jace, stop. I can’t think right now.” Daemon ordered, but Jace didn’t stop. He rarely answered to his step father, he was deep in thought like the rest of the room. A hanging shadow was hanging over Dragonstone with Aemond’s threat to burn it to the ground. The Blacks may have the Dragon Queen but the Gods themselves couldn’t defend Dragonstone against Vhagar.

“You know…” Jace trailed off, Daemon looked at him disinterested. Rhaenyra turned her head slightly towards him, as he thought of his next words.

“What is it, Jace?” Rhaenyra spoke, slightly impatient.

“Alina Targaryen.” He said. Everyone exchanged glances, some confused, some surprised. They hadn’t heard that name in ages and perhaps some people had never heard it before.

“She’s been dead for 130 years.” Daemon said, matter of fact.

There had been a grumbling amongst the smallfolk, something was occurring and no one had the answer and it was something bigger than Aemond and Vhagar. The grumbling was like something was rising, coming alive and word on the street was Alina was planning to come back to slay all the sinners. She had not yet made an appearance.

“The prophecy. There was a prophecy.” Jace pointed out even though he couldn’t remember the full details of said prophecy.

“Yes. They said Alina was to die amongst her dragons, safe within the caves in the North, to protect the eggs of the future but if she was to come alive we would have to gain dragon fire.” Rhaenyra said impatiently, crossing her arms and not looking at her son. “It could never work, Jace.”

Later that night, Jace awoke in his bed from a fitful dream of Vhagar tearing his home to shreds and he knew he had to do something about it. The prophecy of Alina Targaryen was difficult but it was not impossible. Many people at the time did not own dragons or their dragons weren’t used for warfare, just simple fun, so of course the prophecy would be hard. He wrapped a warm robe around his body, keeping the cold chill at bay, thinking over his plans as his bare feet slapped against the stone flooring. His mind was on Alina, the beautiful blonde that was etched into law scriptures, there had even been an execution method in her style for those less fortunate: partially burned by dragon fire and then strangled over several days. It was a gruesome way to end and many people had been subjected to it.

Vermax was asleep when Jace entered the Dragon Pit, he watched him for a while before whistling to awaken him. Vermax was always grumpy when he woke up but actively being woke up was a whole new level of grumpy so Jace was in for a long, long night. In High Velarian, he told Vermax of the old prophecy, of the High and Mighty Alina Targaryen who could help them from being torn into pieces.

Deep within the breathing caves, Alina was still, flat on her back on a spacious rock table; her hands clasped at her stomach, still in her riding gear; her peach coloured mouth relaxed into a soft line; her halo hair scattered around her like a wave as Jace began commanding Vermax’s fire, miles away from the caves. The walls began to move, shaking ever so slightly at every will Jace gave to his dragon and with that push, Alina began to rouse. Not awaking properly, her eyes hadn’t opened but her toes squeezed against her leather sandals as Vermax breathed his hot rage into a vat of iron; quickly, Jace covered the top, burning himself but keeping the fire closed within the jar. He could’ve sworn Vermax rolled his eyes when he thanked him and ran off.

Rhaenyra hardly slept. It wasn’t uncommon. There was much to think about. She was sat at her desk, rifling through some parchments when her eldest son came battling through the door; evidently struggling with his barrel.

“What in the Seven Gods have you got there?” Rhaenyra asked, standing up.

“It’s a vat of fire, Lady Mother. For the prophecy.” He was so unfit.

“The prophecy won’t work, Jace. Don’t be a fool and fall for it. Alina was killed by a Sea Devil. It is in the history books.” She batted her hand away and sat down, not wishing to listen to him.

“Mother, when I was commanding Vermax, it felt like something awoke within me. I could feel this cold chill run right through me, I’m telling you, I don’t think this prophecy is fake.”

“You felt the cold chill because it’s midnight and it’s cold and you’re wearing nothing. Go to bed. I don’t want to hear about it anymore.” Defeated, Jace dragged his vat of fire back to his room.

Defeated by his mother he may be. But something happened and it was unmistakable. So when day broke, he climbed onto the back of Vermax and rode off into the North.

The cave was located amongst a rocky terrain, hidden behind a jagged rock that had dried blood, possibly Alina’s, coated over the tips. The waves crashed against the rocks as Vermax flew onto the hanging cliff, denying to put himself and his rider in danger on the rocks. Jace sighed, noticing the jagged rock, his vat of fire on his back as he slowly, incredibly slowly, bum shuffled down onto a flat rock just to the side of the cave, trying to find a different way to enter but the gap between the rocks was too small, even though he was a particularly skinny young man, he could not fit between them. So he had to go around, the wind whipped around his hair, flowing it into all directions as he clutched onto the sharp edge of the jagged rock, cutting diagonally across his palm as he hauled himself onto a small foot cove when his toes fit perfectly. The waves crashed against him, throwing him into the rock at full speed, cutting the side of his face. He groaned into the cup of his hand, trying to keep his composure as the pain seared through him. Once the waves had ceased for just a moment, adrenaline shot through him and he jumped from the foot cove onto the flat surface at the entrance of the cave.

There was a few spots of water, deep enough to drown in, due to the land shifting over the century she had been dead. At first it was dark, he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face but slowly a light was forming in front of him. Two fawn columns created an archway where a beam of yellow light flooded onto a flat rock, washing over the body of a still woman who was wiggling her toes and small groans escaping her pursed mouth.

“Alina.” He whispered, running towards the rock and finding a beautiful woman, forever twenty three in front of him. The Great Dragon Tamer. Alina Targaryen. He opened the vat ever so slowly, wondering what would happen if the fire was to consume her surroundings, whether she would come to life again. The fire cascaded up and above, touching stalactites and flowing over, somehow it did not touch Alina or Jace and he watched as the Dragon Tamer twitched her eyes. He knelt down beside her, watching her intently as her pale grey eyes opened and took in the fire above her.

The prophecy had worked. The second Alina saw Jace, she shot to her feet, her hand on the sword attached to her leather belt.

“Who are you?” She asked, her voice rough after a century of non speaking.

“I’m Jace… Jace Velarion.” He stumbled across his words, straightening to his feet. Her face was thunderous, her lips straight and almost snarling as she took him in.

“You work at sea.” She spat. “Have you come to kill me once and for all, Jace Velarion?” She unsheathed her sword, the glinting point at his face.

“No, it’s not like that.” He cleared his throat. “I am the son of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. I have come to ask for help.” Her sword lowered ever so gently as she inquired him with her eyes, narrowing them and looking him up and down.

“A Targaryen Queen? You must be a bastard. Where’s your white hair?” She was vaguely amused by this. In normal circumstances, Jace would not be able to control his anger and although he could feel it bubbling, he didn’t want to say anything; this moment couldn’t be ruined.

“We are under threat. It’s complicated but Queen Rhaenyra is technically Queen of Dragonstone but she is the rightful Queen of Westeros, in the Red Keep. But her younger half brother plotted against her, the Hightowers, and now he is on the throne and there’s a threat Vhagar and his bastard rider will detonate us all. We need you.”

“The Hightowers.” She spat, tucking her sword back into her sheath. “I’ve always hated them.” She slapped her thighs, she was incredibly masculine, and drove herself to the entrance of the cave. Jace watched in awe as she screamed in Old Valyrian, something he couldn’t understand himself and saw four dragons rise from the rocks. They had been disguised for 130 years as these jagged rocks, the ones that Jace cut himself on, they roared and they were ten times bigger than Vermax. The wind blew in at a high speed when Alina turned around, a mischievous glint in her eye and the first smile he had seen.

“Are you ready, Prince Jace?”

[dante-mightdie]

Feel free to ignore this if you need to, I just wanted to ask seeing as you've been open about your mental health bwfore

I'm kinda spiraling and I have absolutely no idea what to do, my thoughts are just refusing to give me a break and idk if you've ever found anything that helps :/

The only thing that i’ve learned is that treatment and getting better doesn’t always feel good, you know? when I find myself bedrotting, spiralling into my thoughts, I just keep myself physically busy. even if it’s something I really don’t want to do

Obviously, I know it’s not as easy as just “get up and get over it!” but for me, I have responsibilities that I can’t ignore which means going to work is a must for me, especially since I don’t have a support system in my life

as much as I physically hate getting out of bed and going to work, facing the world etc, it keeps my brain busy when the only other option is floods of bad thoughts

if work isn’t an option, I play video games. but nothing to strenuous on the brain. something mindless that I can play with my eyes closed. like wave-killing zombie games for example

hope this helps and hope you’re feeling better 🫶

[a-lonely-dunedain]

every magic school has the Cringefail Newbie and the Self-Proclaimed Prodigy that adopted him <3

so I finally managed a drawing of Elbryn I'm actually happy with! idk if I'll ever write a proper fic involving him but I do have many Thoughts™ about the lil guy so I'll just dump them here under the cut

so after his rather embarrassing magical mishap in Helgen (which he's pretty sure didn't summon the dragon? but he isn't ruling it out as a possibility) he basically swears off using spells entirely and opts for a war axe

somehow manages to not die despite his lack of skill, figures out he's the Dragonborn yadda-yadda, we've all played the quests.

actually counts the Seven-Thousand-Steps to High-Hrothgar like the nerd he is. It was significantly more than seven thousand and his legs hurt so badly.

after making it to High-Hrothgar the Greybeards basically told Elbryn that he would need to become stronger before he could battle dragons as equals and master his Thu'um. Unfortunately they didn't provide much guidance on exactly how he should go about that, only telling him "that path would be made clear" and leaving the rest up to him.

Decides to go back to Whiterun and join the Companions. He's very intimidated by them, but they're probably the best people he could hope to learn from if he wants to master his skills with a blade.

Notably he goes to great lengths to hide his status as the Dragonborn from basically everyone. He feels as though the people of Skyrim are disheartened enough with the return of the Dragons, and if they knew this "legendary dragon-slayer" was really just some scrawny Breton ex-mage it would only dishearten them further, so he feels like it's better to let everyone assume the Dragonborn is some strong and fearsome Nord warrior or something of that nature. At least until he feels as though he can live up to the title.

He also hides his past as a mage from them because he gets the sense that the Companions would like, instantly stop respecting him if they knew. He does feel very bad about keeping so many secrets from them though, seeing as they all talk a big game about how they "don't deal in secrets like thieves and mages do"

Anyway things with the Companions go surprisingly well! His fighting skills improve significantly and he actually starts to form an unlikely friendship with Farkas. a bit of an "opposites attract" type thing. Farkas sees that Elbryn has a lot of potential but lacks confidence, so he sorta decided to take him under his wing. (Vilkas is a bit less fond of Elbryn though. not that he really dislikes him or anything, but he catches on that he's hiding something and doesn't quite trust it)

anyway if you know how the Companions questline goes you know that they take you into the Underforge with the intention of turning you into a werewolf alarmingly fast. Elbryn was still willing to work with them upon learning they were werewolves, but becoming one himself? no no no no nope. He basically tells them "yeah uhh I'll need to think about it", goes to his room, packs his stuff and sneaks off that very same night without saying a word to anyone. In hindsight he feels bad about that. Kinda wishes he had left Farkas a note or something, but he was scared and in a hurry. Oh well, nothing to be done about it now...

now I know they weren't going to force him to become a werewolf or anything, but Elbryn didn't know that. I mean they said they weren't going to force him but they also said the Companions don't deal in secrets, yet here they are doing this under Kodlak's nose in the dead of night! he has no idea what to think or expect or who he could even talk to and these guys have teeth. so he just runs.

north specifically. Not for any particular reason, he just had to pick a direction and it happened to be north. Wanders around for a bit, unsure of were to go now that his only source of martial training fell through.

Eventually comes across Frostflow Lighthouse (REAL downer of a dungeon that one) Now the thing about Frostflow is that near the end you drop down a cliff, and the only way back out is through the final boss. the giant Chaurus Reaper. So he's cornered down there, alone, with a foe he is woefully unprepared to fight. (In game it kept two-shotting me lmao, but I decided to make a story thing out of it!)

So in desperation he decides to use his magic. Not a lot mind you, maybe just to heal himself or create a flash to stun it so he could get away, but whatever it was he intended to do with it hardly matters, because that's not what ended up happening.

See, as it turns out, when you're naturally gifted with high amounts of magic, trying to suppress it for long periods of time like what Elbryn did basically turns you into a magic bomb. So the moment he tried to tap into his magika reserves, it was like a dam burst open. Everything in the cavern was engulfed in a storm of pure untamed magical energy, swirling and burning and tearing until nothing was left of the Chaurus but some strips of charred flesh and chitin

Elbryn immediately passes out, wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later dazed and utterly horrified at the carnage he left behind. I mean sure, it worked out in his favor this time, he was surrounded by foes and going scorched earth was really the only option, but if someone else had been with him? if something like that were to happen when he was with a friend or trying to protect or rescue someone... He looks back at the charred bits of Chaurus strewn about.

yeah, just suppressing his magic ain't gonna cut it, he needs to learn how to control it or else. There's a college in Winterhold right? that's where he has to go then. So he sets out east over the ice fields and hopes he can make it there before getting hopelessly lost and dying.

(ok I had a lot more to say but this was getting LONG I'll have to make another post later lol. sorry, Elbryn decided he wanted to have a story so I guess there's a story now)

[lucabyte]

Taking pride in One's own appearance.

[fuzzbuns]

Quail, so confusing

[milkbreadtoast]

doodled Stayn from living with magicians webtoon... I like him :) (just felt like drawing random webtoon characters fsr lmao)

[moeblob]

OC again gomen ... (her name is Yuma)

[jester-step]

just girly things: reading batman: dark victory and feeling nauseous every time harvey dent gets mentioned 🌸🥰💕

[autistic-katara]

icl i would be at least a little happy with almost any ending for stranger things but one thing that would ruin all of it would be an epilogue (of a decade or more later)

[puppppppppy]

Been LOVING your lil magician folks recently please continue they're beautiful and very cute and cool and also very well-designed!! 🥺❤️

thank you for the kind words !!! im not much of a writer, but i do have some sort of story in mind for them.. theyre bitter rivals who end up as roommates bc of their scatterbrained elderly landlord lol

[ganondoodle]

im not lying when i say that i was just finally getting "over" totk, like i hate it still, but the immediate anger and need to rant has died down-

and then the elden ring DLC fucks with me in a very similar way, just even moreso focused on my favorite character in that entire franchise, completely unexpectedly, and the more i learn about it the worse it gets and now i feel even worse bc i dont have the energy anymore to get as angry as i did with totk and its just kinda ... depression and sadness ..

it was like the interest i could fall back to when zelda annoyed me too much or i needed a break from that and i was honestly thinking about doing more with it but now

i know i know i can always draw 'my own stuff' but being a fan of a piece of media or character is just fun and .. furfilling to me in a different way and now i feel so empty again ... and finding new things to obsess about is easier said and done bc i dont 'decide' to stop liking something and neither can just decide to obsess over something so im just kinda left hanging here ... and in a way, i still like it and care about it, frustratingly so, and dont WANT to just stop and find soemthign new ...

[danothan]

tough pill i have to swallow is realizing that “getting better” doesn’t mean “getting to do more things,” getting better for me means taking better initiative in protecting myself. and THAT means making sure i do LESS things

[toytulini]

me, stupidly and weirdly resistant to listening to audio books vs reading a physical book for no real reason: man i wish there was a way to like, read a book while i crochet like i do with tv shows and movies and podcasts