#big berd

[the-king-of-lemons]

paused my vod to make this

[freckliedan]

you’re the only person allowed to say “you don’t know them like i do” bc you’ve never been wrong about those losers EVER your mind

WAH thank you 🥰 i need it to be known always that whatever brain cell i share with dan and phil it's also shared completely with my darling @freckliephil who's the reason i made this blog‼️ i'm just the one of us who's continued posting, for better or worse.

[derlejoe]

breeder.of.the.beard

source: instagram

[madonnamadeofasphalt]

EA & Bioware honestly did an incredible job at killing any enthusiasm I had for a new Dragon Age. Fucking hell, man, I've played the first two games so much I could probably go through them with closed eyes and still pick all the right dialogue options to get My Exact Personally Canonized Plot. And the only reason I didn't do the same thing with DA:I is because it was made after EA completely gave up on optimizing their shit so the fucking thing takes up like a billion terabytes of disc space and takes 10 hours to download and install. I honestly think it's the best-written cRPG franchise to ever have a budget that doesn't involve a list of Kickstarter backers or getting an eccentric Estonian billionaire fixated on the project. And the gameplay is also there, I don't really care about that part.

Then they proceeded to fire all the talent that made me love those first three games, and scratch and restart the production twice, and be suspiciously cagey with any details or gameplay footage for a fucking decade, so my hype consistently went down and down. And yet I still managed to hold out some hope that somehow, by some miracle, it wouldn't fucking suck.

I kept that hope until the trailer dropped. You know the one. The one where we see a bearded Varric. This, I think, was the exact moment when I lost any desire to play fucking Veilguard.

Like, first of all, Varric being there at all is already an issue. Leave the man alone. His presence was already kinda forced in DA:I. And after DA:I and Tresspasser, his story couldn't be more finished if he got killed, eaten, shitted out, condemned to hell, redeemed by divine sacrifice, bathed for eternity in the everlasting light. There is no point to Varric anymore. Whatever arc they've given him in Veilguard, and I don't even give a shit enough to read the spoilers before writing this post, it has no business existing. Fuck you. The only reason he's there is because he's a recognizable IP, and when you're a certain kind of soulless corporate moron, you think there's nothing more important than putting a recognizable IP in whatever new bullshit you're trying to peddle. Maybe if you didn't fire every decent writer in your trash fucking company, you'd have someone to tell you about the importance of Ending The Fucking Story When The Story Fucking Ends.

But that's not even the core of the problem. Beard? they gave Varric a Beard? Varric I fucking hate everything that's even tangentially connected to dwarven culture with a passion which is why I've made a point to shave my beard all my life to spite anyone who gives a fuck about it Tethras? beard? you gave him a beard? He changed so much offscreen in the goddamn timeskip between these two games that he got a motherfucking berd? fucshhfdbeard? feadsgfsvarricafgfdh BEARD? yyousftoiuslyhhabevarricasgsfucningbeardandthivkimgosabedineditit?beard????

PS. (edit after finding out spoilers) I've gone to TV Tropes to read up on Varric's role in DATV after writing this (just in case I'm wrong and dumb, and there's actually a deeply compelling narrative reason for his presence), and, well, this shit is cheaper than I thought. And more importantly, just as I thought, there appears to be no justification for the beard beyond "adding a beard is a cliche way to show that a bunch of time has passed, and we didn't care enough to think this shit through". I'm fucking tired, man.

PPS. (edit after reading the rest of big spoilers) This is so much worse than I could even begin to suspect. This is worse than the final season of Game of Thrones. This is the final season of Game of Thrones if they straight-up fired GRRM, burned his notes and hired a showrunner who's only read a one-page summary of the first six seasons. This is fucking depressing, man. I'm genuinely fucking sad. So many subplots that were started over the course of these three games, that were clearly going somewhere, scrapped in favour of a simplistic good vs. evil story that would get rejected by fucking CD-Projekt in 2007 for being too basic. All because the artists who poured their hearts and souls into this bullshit franchise got thrown out like trash by its "owners". Morrigan's kid, the Well of Sorrows, all the implied complexities of Tevinter politics, the Crows, the Old Gods, Andraste. All went to shit. Death to capitalism.

[baenakinskywalker]

hungry like the wolf

chapter two: i'll be upon you by the moonlight side

She’s been tossing and turning for over an hour if the clock on the nightstand isn’t lying. Taggie thought with Gertrude by her side, this might not happen again, but her luck has run out. With a huff, she flops her limbs out in all directions. Gertrude snuffles. The clock ticks. It’s not that the bed is uncomfortable. Or that she’s not tired. It’s just — It’s too dark. She flicks the lamp on, but — too bright.  Taggie weighs her options with her eyes screwed shut. She can keep lying here, get no sleep, and be completely dead on her feet when she needs to focus tomorrow. She can count sheep. She can sneak out of Penscombe, creep through the Bluebell Wood, sleep in her bed at the Priory, and come back before Rupert knows she’s missing.  Or, she can go down the hall.

rating: E

words: 3,343

a/n: surprise! couldn't keep this to myself any longer. chapter 3 will be a little longer of a wait, but i promise it will be worth it. again, huge thanks to @berd-nerd, @popjunkie42, and the @rutagdiscord for the encouragement!

read under the cut or on ao3!

Taggie O’Hara hasn’t been to Penscombe before. Not really, not if you don’t count that disastrous meeting on the tennis court. Or if you don’t count the times she’s been on the grounds for Venturer meetings — few and far between, since the Priory is designated HQ. 

So, she’s never been to Penscombe like this. As a guest. And an employee, technically. 

It’s a massive, stunning estate. She’s barely in the door, and Taggie already can’t believe that someone could inherit something like this. The antique furniture in rich mahogany and oak, the portraits from the esteemed Campbell-Black lineage, all of it. It’s such a big home for just one man, which is probably why there’s been a pack of decently behaved dogs sniffing at their heels since they arrived. 

Rupert carries Gertrude so his pups don’t get any bad ideas — good behavior only means so much when you’re a dog, after all. And so Taggie walks behind the two of them, duffle bag on her shoulder, careful not to knock into anything that costs more than her meager catering income. Which is, well, everything they pass on the way to the kitchen. 

And — oh. The kitchen. Wall-to-wall countertops in a gorgeous dark wood, with polished brass hardware. The spices she could fill those drawers with: marjoram, anise, fennel, cardamom — the list goes on and on. And space for all of her pots and pans, even for a full set of the stainless steel ones that Bas has recommended on more than one occasion at Bar Sinister. She could even find room for those gorgeous Le Creuset pieces she used to stare at in shop windows back in London.

Taggie imagines herself washing up after dinner, staring out across the serene grounds through the massive windows above the sink. They reach all the way to the top of the high ceiling, making the entire kitchen feel open and airy. All helped, of course, by the bright tiled floors, cream walls, and light stonework. It would be easy to watch the dogs running wild during the summer, or to watch the stars blinking in the night sky on a dark winter evening. With Rupert beside her, doing the drying.

For a moment, she lets herself wonder what Cameron thinks of this kitchen. Has she made more than a cup of coffee here? Not worth worrying over, not when Cameoron hasn’t even been in the country for a month or so. Still, Taggie has a laundry list of questions that she’d like answered this week, if only she can muster the courage to ask them. 

Beaver licks at her ankle, and that’s when she spies a line of dog bowls beside a round dining table, situated in front of a bow window. 

“Do you feed them buffet style?”

Rupert turns, still cradling Gertrude, who has settled into the crook of his arm like she was born there. “Are you insulting the way I feed my dogs? You’ve been here all of two minutes.”

“I’m sorry.” She sticks out her lower lip. “It’s just a lot of bowls in a row, that’s all. D’you ever trip over them in the middle of the night?”

“No, actually,” he says. “But you’re one to talk — what in God’s name are you feeding this one? She’s a boulder.” He feigns a struggle to lift Gertrude so he can press a kiss to her fuzzy head. Not unlike the kiss Taggie received back in the Priory, she notes. 

“It’s not polite to talk about a woman’s weight.” Gertrude yelps in agreement, or at the five dogs staring up at her from the floor. “You’re going to have to introduce them sometime,” Taggie adds, setting her bag on the counter. She almost feels bad hefting such an old thing onto the polished stone. But Rupert doesn’t bat an eye. 

“I know,” he starts. “What if they corrupt her terribly?”

Taggie smiles. “I think you’re forgetting that your first impression of her was brute.”

“A smart woman once told me that people can change,” Rupert replies. He’s always doing that — calling her smart, or clever, or bright. At first, it was shocking. Not a single person has described her that way before. Not Daddy, any of her teachers, either sibling, and especially not Mummy. It’s always: Taggie is such a good cook! Taggie is beautiful, like her mother! Taggie’s great with animals! Nobody runs the house like Taggie! 

Smart still sends a blush creeping across her cheeks and nose. But slowly, she’s getting used to it. Preferring it, even, to pretty, talented, reliable. Coming from Rupert, though, she takes them all happily. He’s not stingy with his praise.

“Shall I get you something to eat?” he asks once Gertrude is safely on the ground and sniffing each of the new dogs like she’s being paid to. “Contrary to popular belief, I can cook.”

Taggie’s eyes track the dogs as they scamper away, Gertrude at the helm. She’s already running them like the Royal Navy. “What exactly is on the menu, chef?” she asks.

“Well, madame,” Rupert starts, “the plat du jour is a real treat: my famous cheese toastie.”

Taggie can’t fight the laughter that spills from her mouth. Her cheeks already hurt, and it’s barely been ten minutes with him. Will she be able to move her face at all come Sunday? “I can whip something up for us, if you’d like,” Taggie offers when she’s sufficiently recovered. 

“And deprive you of what one Scorpion reporter deemed perfectly edible? Not a chance.” He walks behind the large island to where a bread box sits on the counter by the window. When he lifts the lid, there’s a perfect sourdough loaf inside. Definitely not baked by the Minister for Sport. “Don’t worry, darling.” He slices through the bread with an elegant knife. “You’ll have plenty of time to get to know the kitchen after tonight.”

And she’ll need it. This is a far cry from the job at Green Lawns, and there’s little room for error. At least Rupert won’t make her dress like a French maid — probably. 

“Let me help?” Taggie asks, already rolling her sleeves up. 

“Agatha, I know how to work the hob,” Rupert says. He pins her with a look that makes something in the pit of her stomach flip. People so rarely call her Agatha. She squeezes her knees together on instinct. Then, like he notices her fidgeting, he adds, “If you want to hunt for something to zhuzh with, that’s fine. But I’m cooking.”

He hasn’t even started heating up the pan, but Taggie feels flushed. The fridge is a welcome reprieve, and she finds it well-stocked with everything an MP could want. There’s blocks of cheeses, domestic and imported; fresh red tomatoes that have her longing to take a bite; fish, beef, chicken, and pork, all wrapped in butcher paper and labeled with neat handwriting; and plenty of milk and salted butter. Behind a large head of lettuce, she spots it: A jar of fig jam. 

The wheels turn, and Taggie opens a few cupboards until she finds the next ingredient she’s looking for: honey. “What cheese have you picked?” she asks, tucking a curl behind her ear. It should be salty to counter these two sweet additions. 

“A white cheddar. Sharp,” Rupert says. “Found what you need?” Taggie nods and hands over her spoils. “A little jam on one slice of bread, then a drizzle of honey over the cheese.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rupert does just as she says, buttering four slices of sourdough, spreading the fig jam on two, and layering cheese and honey over the others. He assembles the sandwiches quickly, and his work is a little sloppy, if Taggie’s being honest. But the smell when they sizzle in the pan — scrumptious. 

It doesn’t take long for the cheese to melt and each sandwich to be flipped. Rupert plates them, then sets both on the round table situated by the window. From a tall cabinet along the opposite wall, he plucks two wine glasses and a bottle of Merlot. When their glasses are filled, he says with a flourish, “Dinner is served, my lady.”

Rupert pulls her chair out, then clinks glasses with her. “Cheers,” Taggie says. 

The first bite is divine. 

“Oh, Beattie Johnson is really missing out.” 

—

Once dinner is finished, the wine bottle drained, and the dishes taken care of — which Taggie is not, under any circumstances, allowed to help with — Rupert shows her upstairs to her bedroom for the week. It’s a blush pink color, with English country landscapes and horses covering the walls. When he flicks on the light, she wonders if this could have been Tabitha’s room. 

They don’t talk about his children. She only knows their names from that ill-fated meeting with Helen and talking to Lizzie over tea at the Priory. That’s also how she knows their ages: Tabitha, 8, and Marcus, 6. Products of a contentious marriage with an even more contentious divorce. 

So Taggie bites her tongue, holding back the questions on her mind. “Thank you,” she says instead. Gertrude, retrieved from her new friends after dinner, immediately hops up onto the bed. “For the room, and the op-op—opportunity,” 

“Tag,” Rupert starts, leaning against the doorframe, “it’s a shame that you haven’t been over before. From now on, you’re always welcome at Penscombe, even if I’m not here. And you’re the only one I trust in the kitchen with Maggie in the dining room.”

Taggie sits beside Gertrude and runs a hand up and down her back. “It still means a lot,” she says. All of it does. The cooking, the washing up, the belief that she can handle something like this. Mummy and Daddy thrust a lot onto her, but not because they think she can do it — simply because they know that nobody else will. She’s defied plenty of their expectations, but it’s easy because those expectations are nonexistent. 

“Of course, angel.” Rupert comes toward the both of them on the bed, and for a moment, Taggie thinks he’s going to kiss her. 

He didn’t kiss her last time. He kissed her back, but Taggie was the one to start it, and she’s acutely aware of that fact. Every time she replays the kiss in the Priory — frequently — she changes one detail so Rupert is the one to make that move. In her mind, Rupert leans first, comes forward so that his mouth is on hers and she’s the one answering. 

His hands, large and warm on her hips. His teeth, sharp on her bottom lip. His tongue, cautious at first and then so persistent that she could have melted right there. God, and the way he looked down at her when, finally, they pulled away. Like something precious. Like an undoing. 

That night, after the party had ended and everyone went their separate ways, after Rupert reluctantly left to go check on the dogs (and after Cameron called him from Corinium), Taggie thought about that look, that kiss, with her fingers between her legs. But the shuddering orgasm — and all the ones since — haven’t been enough to rewrite history. 

She wants him to kiss her so badly it hurts. 

This time, it’s Gertrude. Rupert bends to kiss her nose, and Taggie lets out a nervous laugh. 

“That’s a good girl,” Rupert says, giving Gertrude a scratch behind the ears. “Goodnight, ladies. If you need anything, I’ll be right down the hall.”

“G’night,” Taggie breathes. The room feels too small, even though it’s fit for a queen. Or princess. 

When the door shuts behind him, Taggie flings an arm over her face and groans. 

—

She’s been tossing and turning for over an hour if the clock on the nightstand isn’t lying. Taggie thought with Gertrude by her side, this might not happen again, but her luck has run out. With a huff, she flops her limbs out in all directions. Gertrude snuffles.

The clock ticks.

It’s not that the bed is uncomfortable. Or that she’s not tired. It’s just —

It’s too dark. She flicks the lamp on, but — too bright. 

Taggie weighs her options with her eyes screwed shut. She can keep lying here, get no sleep, and be completely dead on her feet when she needs to focus tomorrow. She can count sheep. She can sneak out of Penscombe, creep through the Bluebell Wood, sleep in her bed at the Priory, and come back before Rupert knows she’s missing. 

Or, she can go down the hall.

“Gertrude,” Taggie whispers. “What do I do?

Gertrude sneezes. 

“Fine.”

Taggie swings her legs off the bed, gathering her courage and her robe. Penscombe is eerily quiet at night — she can’t even hear the dogs, which could mean they’re either extraordinarily good sleepers, or that they have accommodations downstairs. She pads down the cavernous hallway, socks slipping between the Turkish runners laid across the hardwood. Rupert’s room is just a few doors away. 

God, this is embarrassing. 

In front of his door, she has two options: knock, or just open the door. Both seem terrible. 

She knocks.

Beaver barks, Gertrude barks behind her, and suddenly Taggie’s worried that the whole estate is going to wake up. But a lamp clicks on and light pours from under the door. “Taggie?” Rupert calls. “What’s the matter?”

Shame flames from the crown of her head all the way down to her socks, but she turns the doorknob slowly. “Hi,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry about this.”

Rupert sits on the side of the bed, Beaver on the floor in front of him. He’s shirtless, and from her vantage point in the doorway, she spies dark pyjama bottoms slung low around his hips. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before, but — God. That day on the tennis court seems so far away. He was a completely different person to her then; a total stranger. Rude, terrible, even. So while she’s familiar with the shape of him, she’s managed to compartmentalize naked, mean Rupert away from clothed, kind Rupert.

Except they’re really the same man, and the markings of sleep have made him even more attractive somehow. 

“No, s’just…” She takes a deep breath. In her mind, she sees this same scene play out with a dark-haired little girl. She follows Taggie’s steps from the pink bedroom to here, knocks the same way, and finds the same man in this room. Only Helen is in the bed next to him — and in her American accent, she asks, “Did you have a nightmare?” 

In the present, Taggie stammers, “C-can I come in?”

“Please,” he says. “Are you feeling sick? I didn’t think my cooking was that bad, but you never really know.” 

Gertrude takes her opportunity to find Beaver and curl up beside him like they’re an old married couple. “Dinner was great. I just…” she trails.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“No!” she answers quickly. “No, I…I wasn’t asleep at all.”

Rupert squints at the clock on the nightstand. “Christ, it’s nearly one in the morning.” He pats the mattress beside him. “Come here.” 

He’s going to think she’s a child. But she’s drawn to him anyway, so she sits beside him and fiddles with the sash across her waist. 

“Darling,” Rupert starts softly. “If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I can’t fix it.”

Her face goes deep red. “There’s nothing for you to fix, really.” Rupert squeezes her knee, and while she’s sure it’s meant to be comforting, it’s anything but. He makes her head swim.

“But,” Rupert encourages, “there’s clearly something wrong, or you’d be dreaming about grocery lists by now.”

Taggie gulps. His large hand is still on her knee, and it’s all she can focus on. “I’m…I’m a-a—afraid—”

Before she can finish her sentence, Rupert’s hand is gone, his eyes wide. 

“No! Not of you — God, Rupert, honestly.” This would be funny if it weren’t so mortifying. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Can you please put me out of my misery, then?” He breathes deep. “I don’t know about you, but I’d like to get back to sleep sometime before the sun rises.” He bumps her shoulder with his own, adding, “Be a good girl and tell me?”

Oh. It should be illegal to be this embarrassed and turned on at the same time. The two emotions roll together in her gut, and she almost does feel sick. Taggie closes her eyes, squeezes her lips together, and finally says, “I’m afraid of the dark.”

Rupert nods, and it strikes her as so fatherly that she has to push the thought away immediately. Thankfully, he adds, “That’s it, is it? This estate has plenty of lamps if you need them. I’m sure I could wrangle a few more for your room.” 

Taggie shoots him a glare. “It’s just the first night in a new place” she adds. “And I thought that having Gertrude with me would be enough, that I’d be fine, but…I just can’t sleep.” She pauses, knowing there’s one critical piece missing. “Alone.”

Alone. It’s like the word itself punches Rupert in the gut. He looks at her like he can’t quite tell if this is all a dream. “So you need…me,” he says slowly.

“Look,” Taggie starts, skin burning, “I can take the floor. Really, it’s just — I’m so sorry.” She can’t bear to address what he actually said.

“Absolutely not.” Rupert stands, and the sight of his long, lean body at full height is nearly too much to take in. He turns down the other side of the bed and fluffs the extra pillow. “We’ll share. It’s fine.” His voice is nearly back to normal.

“It’s fine?”

Rupert’s whole face softens. “Of course. I’m the reason you’re here, so I’m not about to banish you to the floor like one of the dogs.” He gives Beaver a pointed look. “Though he sometimes winds up beside me, so it may be a tight squeeze.”

Something lifts from her chest. Taggie takes a full, deep breath and stands. “Thank you.”

“Stop thanking me. You know you’re welcome anywhere at Penscombe, at any time.”

Including his bedroom, Taggie thinks dimly. Her mouth goes dry at the thought. 

She comes around the bed — large enough for two people and a few dogs — and shrugs off her robe. Of course she’s wearing the red nightie, the one Rupert saw on Patrick’s birthday. If she notices his eyes widening, she tries not to react. 

“I know you said not to thank you,” Taggie says, getting into bed, “but I will anyway.” Feeling suddenly bold, she leans across the expanse of the bed to where Rupert lies against the headboard and presses a kiss to his cheek. His skin is warm and rough under her lips, and she thinks about her hands there instead, dragging his face down to hers. 

Rupert hums softly. “Goodnight, angel.”

He turns off the lamp, and Taggie is asleep in minutes.

—

It’s still dark when her eyes open again. 

Hot. That’s all Taggie registers as she struggles to make sense of where she is. The side of her face is pressed into a pillow, and all she sees across from her is a mop of hair and the shadow of dark lashes across cheekbones. 

But she feels so — hot, burning all over. Low in her belly, especially. Even lower, it aches. Taggie rolls her hips to relieve some of the deep arousal building between her thighs. Where is she again? 

She rolls her hips again, and — oh. She catches on something solid. It’s a spark like she never feels alone, burning bright and egging her on. Just keep moving, just like that, and then —

The solid thing shifts, and a few things start to make sense.

Taggie realizes with no shortage of mortification that not only is she in Rupert Campbell-Black’s bed but she’s also grinding her cunt against his thigh. 

And as she moves to extricate herself from this precarious situation, a deep voice makes her toes curl. 

“Where do you think you’re going, Agatha?”

[apollo-justice-irl]

I think riz gukgak should become a huge film buff I think he should be a really big berd about movies I think the bad kids should use this to make awesome music videos for fig and the sig figs and also to make videos promoting how awesome cassandra is and also him and fabian should be like troy and abed from community

[enamorest]

Maybe a drawing of how you think enchanting tools/armor works? (Do they etch on runes, read from a book, weld on magic crystals, ect?) Or maybe a drawing of Jawsh hitting Berd with a big mallet, either one lol

hmmm ok this might be a bit confusing. I guess this applies to my Minecraft logic outside of SDMP too.

in my belief, any instance of enchanted/magical objects or situations stem directly from the End. (ie enchantment tables, enchantment books, ender eyes.) when enchanting, books placed onto enchantment tables are converted and translated from ender speech (the symbols that magically go into the book). ender speech is what informs the enchantment table of the spells/enchantments possible for said item that is able to be enchanted.

Ender speech isn’t what fuels enchanting, however, rather it’s a basis to read off of (like instructions.)

XP is a magical substance that makes up any living mob (theory that everything is connected to the end and/or stems from the end). the player can collect more XP after killing mobs. for enchanting, XP takes/uses the transcribed Ender speech in enchantment books and applies it to the weapon/armor. (XP is like mana in a sense. it picks up whatever the transcribed Ender speech tells it). this is why more powerful enchantments require more XP because they hold more ‘magic’.

(for biology nerds, Enchantment books and the ender speech written are DNA codons and XP is RNA polymerase translating and transcribing the codons.)

other items that are directly connected to the End— Ender eyes/Ender chests, runes— are naturally magical. these don’t need transcribed Ender speech to be used.

im really bad at explaining things so sorry if it doesn’t make sense :[ you had a really good question tho. got my brain turning

and ofc this too:

[hypocriticaltypwriter]

You're big in the community. Do you know any lost boy fanfic writers? I only know one who made journal footnotes, scarification, etc.

Well that depends!! Are you looking for some Lost Boy fics just the movie characters exclusively? Or some X Readers? Cause I'm more than happy to share for both!

Now, I myself am into a lot of X Reader works, so some of my favorites are from my dearest friends @misslavenderlady and @britany1997 !! They make very wonderful X Reader one shots, drabbles that are such treats that never get old- I swear you can go back and re-read em over and over and still get sappy and melt. 🤤🩷🥰

Another few works that I adore are @sunkendreams , @charlizekkelly or @luv4fandoms X Reader one-shots, and @darlingverse Lost Boys X Emerson!Reader series that are FANTASTIC!! And some of em have some really wonderful spice/smut if your looking for that... 👀

But!! If X Readers aren't up your alley, fear not! @berd-alert and @themarginalthinker make some really fantastic TLB fics/one-shots. Angst, fluff, shit thsts just hilarious and sweet, super thought out story and stuff you can just spend hours binge reading. They're working on a current fic series [WHICH OMG YALL AINT READY FOR ITS JAW DROPPING] and they even have an AO3 I totally suggest checking out!! Think even has a VTM fic which is suuuppper good and a very good fic to get hooked on.

@ria-coolgirl also makes a lot of Lost Boy fics/concept ideas that are super clever and fun! She also makes some poly/Lost Boys x Michael works that are just lovely.

Hope I was able to help!! 🩷🩷

[astra-aeterna]

the first chapter of she thinks i'm a saint (but divinity was never the aim) is now live on Ao3

Rhysand Astaris prides himself on being a kind, caring, and effective teacher. High school students can be difficult, considering teenagers are going through an incredible amount of changes in a short period of time and their young brains aren’t well-equipped enough to handle it properly. He has to somehow manage teaching them chemistry while ensuring that they aren’t falling apart at the seams due to interpersonal drama or issues at home— all without toeing the line of being the ‘creepy’ teacher. And it’s something he does take into consideration, especially considering the way a lot of his junior and senior female students look at (and talk about) him. But there’s always an exception to the rule, isn’t there? It only takes a few weeks for him to realize that he’s met his exception in the form of Feyre Archeron. AKA the absolute debauchery of high school teacher Rhys who unofficially takes guardianship of Feyre.

please read and heed the tags, and if it isn't for you, that's more than okay. sending you off with a lil kiss. mwah.

and a big big thanks to @berd-nerd for beta reading this for me (and catching my silly -isms and mistakes)

[howlonomy]

martlet has to be VEEERRRRRYYYY careful with her wierd child, because big berd hands + body that is VERY FRAGILE because of it being a mix of 3-4 species is uhhh, not a good mix when the other mom is very protective

oh yeah absolutely LOLL shes already very careful with her size with everything else but now shes super paranoid with clover and kanako

ceroba would understand if an accident happened tho :]

[themarginalthinker]

Dear Fellow Traveler

There are other vampires in the world, and the world itself is a big, big place. David takes a little trip.

-

Sooo......this is an odd one. Basically so far outside of Lost Boys canon it almost isn't anymore, but it's also a small look into some vampire worldbuilding Berd and I have done. David knows people outside of his pack, and they know him. (They certainly know Max, and that's not a good thing.)

Anyway, here you go. Enjoy?

-

It's not hard to find what you're looking for if you know what to look for.

David meanders down the streets of a late-night San Jose. The place hadn't changed too much since his last visit, a couple years ago. Marko and Paul hadn't been wrong - it was a city of many people, from all over. Most of California seemed like that.

San Jose was not Santa Carla, however. Few places were, David would give it that. Further inland, the air didn't hold salt and brine anymore, wasn't thick with humidity that gripped the scent of whatever organic life passed through it.

The blood here was of a different kind. Smeared on concrete thick with grit and dust. In the ash of smoke from things rolled into cigarettes that even Paul likely hadn't had the time to try all of.

David follows it. It makes no attempts to hide itself.

Humans couldn't smell it, after all.

It takes him past downtown - predictably. Hunting grounds for those with the charm, the grace to stalk the nightclub and bar, and for those without, plenty of pickings in the back alleys and unfortunates sleeping on park benches and bus routes. But one never mixed supper with sleep, and David veered off that path, following the one laid out. He glances up, to the side of a bricked up building. There were less businesses here, tucked away in second-story lofts and between condemned flats. He finds what he expects to see:

A tag, small enough to not draw the eye, in faded brown, sealed below disguising black paint. A calaveras, its grinning teeth showing points at the canines, and the moon in pretty, decorated swirls at its bone forehead.

He'd been following the trail for the last hour. The blood was getting fresher.

The streets are darker out here. Less cars, and those that do pass him are beaters at best. Spaces between buildings are trash heaps, massive junk piles. Sometimes, he thinks he sees something darting out of view when he looks up to the glassless windows of a building. Senses a shift in the air as he passes along a certain way, avoiding the scattered streetlights.

Finally, he comes to a stop.

A warehouse, utterly dilapidated, stretching along before a huge chunk of abandoned manufacturing factory property. Surrounded on all sides by the rusting, decaying waste of metal, the exoskeleton of a once-great beast twisted and scattered to and fro. The back end of it even caving in - but.

If one looked, one could see details in the dark. If one could see in the dark.

Certain places in the roof, patched over with welded bits of sheet metal. Open spaces in the sides, to same. Holes stoppered up. David himself stood before a door to an entryway that used to lead to offices inside, or at least a coatroom of sorts - but the door wasn't just barred with lock and key, no. The hinges had been welded shut to match the patched holes in the roof. To the side, little windows, and behind them nothing but a wall of cinderblocks. One couldn't force their way inside if they tried.

Etched into the glass of one of those windows, another little sugar skull design. Sharp teeth. Moon at its forehead.

"It hasn't been that long, Williams. Can't have forgotten where the front door is."

David smiles, and it's sharp.

"No, it hasn't, and no, I haven't. I was just waiting for a proper welcome, is all."

-

David doesn't know their real name.

Vampires who headed clan hubs rarely needed them, or kept them for long after they took the position.

The vampire who greeted him outside was shorter than David, thinner shoulders, smaller over all, but their face hard set. Copper skin warm even in the darkness, their crow black hair cut short up the back, held in a wolftail with a leather cord.

The leather wasn't animal.

Their clothing was a little more familiar style - not quite the wild fancies of the Boardwalks and the coast with its warm winds and wiles, but something that seemed to fade into the mechanical park above them. Faded denim jacket, bleached into curling, skeletal markings. Lines of fine beadwork amid the torn jeans and hole-riddled long sleeve shirt. Thick boots that had seen more wear and repairs than any sane person would think to use to keep them in working order.

Some of that leather wasn't animal either.

They had brought David down in a new way. A way David, in truth, didn't know. He'd been correct in saying that he'd known the literal doors to the building weren't the way inside, but apparently the real entrance had moved since last he'd come to San Jose. Just before the entrance to the warehouse wasteland, there was a small, unassuming grate laid into the foundations of what would have been a runnoff channel. It came out with only a small application of superhuman strength, and the pair had slipped down - guests first.

The crawl space of a concrete pipe had turned into a constructed tunnel, leading to a basement room where they came up through the floor. Into the clan grounds proper.

David had asked about that, as they climbed the stairs up to the main level, the floor of the half-collapsed warehouse - an aesthetic choice, or a necessity?

"Just young idiots, making noise," the Clan Vamp said.

"Bad enough to warrant a doorman?" David had asked with a raised eyebrow.

The Clan Vamp's smile is thin. "Enough to know you were here when you crossed city limits.

Well, shit.

"This place really has gone to the dogs," David tuts.

"Was it ever anywhere else?"

They exchange smiles - with teeth. Not full teeth, for David's words were not said with malice, and the reply not given in offense. But a flash of fangs to let the other know a boundary had been met. Eye to eye.

They finish climbing the steps from the basement level, and step out into the clan grounds.

In the center of the huge, open space, three fires in low bins flickered. Enough to cast long, dark shadows on the tall walls stretching high above. All around, curtains hung from rafters, some still in their original place, and others torn down and twisted about to form more private quarters. Strings of fairy lights wound through it all, here and there, in mismatched areas of pillows and mattresses, true nests. Further back, in the darker corners, hung bodies, close together or further apart. Those who preferred to roost rather than sleep flat.

Around the fires, similarly were a few groups of couches and chairs and lounges, scattered messes of more places to lay and sit.

And people were sitting. Voices filtered through the air now, shifting like the firelight. Low tones, among groups of twos and threes, occasionally someone taking off to roost in the rafters, or return to the privacy of a nest. Snatches of music came and went, as someone somewhere in the mess tuned a radio.

David takes it all in.

"Is the party over?" He asks the Clan Vamp, nodding at the...somewhat quiet night. He remembers what it was like the last time he came.

They glance at him, a long look full of many emotions, before walking forward, David in tow.

"Sure. Since el caballo de caza decided to come around."

David braces himself.

"How many lost?" He asks quietly.

The Clan Vamp didn't answer right away. They come to a couch, low slung in the age of its use, and they sit themselves down, sinking into a corner of it with familiar ease. They gesture for David to take the opposite end, and he does. Above their heads, in the rafters, the radio is finally tuned, and something slow, melodic and heavy in the bass guitar plays.

The firelight dances across the Clan Vamp's features as they reach into their pockets, pulling out a paper carton. They take two hand-rolled cigarettes, and light one in the flame of the bin fire. They use that to light the other. They hand one to David, who takes it, and draws.

It's not fully tobacco, and David recognizes the taste of familiar drugs, and something unique he's not likely to find anywhere else.

It's a few long minutes of silence, between them. Enjoying the smoke, the amiable air.

Finally, with a flick of a finger to rid the tip of the fag of ash where it puddles on the concrete floor, the Clan Vamp speaks.

"Three packs gone, all come here from Reno. One because they both wanted the same hunting ground, wouldn't listen to negotiation. Other two because the fighting drew line of fire from Hunters."

Loud, young idiots indeed.

The Clan Vamp's unoccupied fingers drum a steady beat on their own thigh. They lick their teeth.

"Lost a childe."

David blinks.

He looks to them. Their dark eyes weren't on him, or the rest of the clan grounds. Rather, they'd focused on the fire, almost transfixed. Their mind elsewhere. Distant.

"Shit," he says flatly.

"No one you knew," they say with a shrug.

David takes another draw of smoke, holding it, letting it curl through him. Watching his own long exhale billow upwards into the dark ceiling. A pair of bodies flitted through the space, unnaturally fast, unnaturally quiet. The pair of vampires above giggling to themselves as they moved about. David's eyes came back down.

As if the knowing mattered.

David thinks about Paul, staying back with Marko, despite the two of them knowing he was going tonight. Wanting to come. Knowing they couldn't.

He thinks about them being here, if...something happened.

"You gonna stay long?" They ask him at length.

David's mouth twists into a grimace he can't quite pass off as a smile.

"Daddy would get worried," he answers.

The Clan Vamp barks a laugh, low and humorless. "Damn. Thought you might'a come out here to tell me some good news, Williams."

"Nope," David drawls, popping the 'p'. "Same as it always was. He's opened a fucking business."

"No kidding."

"Mm. Actual, legitimate thing. Videos and TVs and all that junk. Makes a killing, apparently."

Another laugh between them, only a little bit lighter.

"How long you think he's got?" The Clan Vamp asks, sucking down the last of their cigarette.

David huffs, leaning further back into the couch.

"For as long as the Devil's got patience."

"La bendición."

David grins. It's only a little dulled.

[jerdyuri]

I've shipped meowztrosist and emriza (emma langevin x meowriza) and jerdriza is an excellent addition. I've never even seen them interact with her but i can SEE the potential. I think jawsh and riza would throw each other around like stress toys

omg YES. i've actually read your meowztrosist fic it was so good!! i'm such a big aztro fan lmao

back to the point though! back during the drama on sdmp a bit ago meowriza assigned herself jawsh's guard and troll defense, so she was patrolling the grounds around the cathedral and everything,, and at one point the three of them were just chilling inside the half-built cathedral and singing together and i haven't been normal about it since then

i might try to find where that happened again but i was watching meowriza's stream and i don't think the vod saved at all :( so i'd have to figure out if jawsh or berd were streaming at the time and then find it in there which is. a lot (i will be trying anyway)

[heartsfourfeferi]

made some akuma kun ocs since i recently got hyperfixated on it, and watched some episodes of the OG.

under the cut r them

- Naoimi

Big ol' buck tooth!

prettiest girl in school

a bit snotty hut not a straight-up asshole

is a demon. obviously.

Gets easily annoyed with alot of ppl (side effect of being hashtag popular)

likes being a dork with shion, talking about her favorite books and drama shows with her and stuff

has the stereotypical-like long hair with sowoop over one eye

autism. qutsim. frequently eats her hair as a way of stimming

BERD. NERD. YOU NERD!!

brags that shes the sibling of maphesto III (not suprising, but hes kind of popular too.)

- Shion

Just showed up one day

Naomi's bodyguard basically

She has big ol' ponytails, and is also rlly chubby. She also has a mouth on the back of her head that has a mind of its own

Demon, see previous statment

Has braces

A dork.

Autism !!!!! yay

Shes just a silly teenage girl

maybe shes a angel but idk you never know

maybe she has a deep dark secret

you can never tell

short

hangs out with ichiro and naoimi a lot

[whats-in-a-sentence]

The Pardoner wears his blond hair long, spread over his shoulders, his big eyes 'like a hare', a spray of Veronica, the flower of love and fidelity, in his cap. He has a voice as light as a goat, and he is beardless and smooth-faced:

A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot.

No berd hadde he, he nevere sholde have;

As smothe it was as it were late shave.

I trowe he were a geldyng or a mare.

"Normal Women: 900 Years of Making History" - Philippa Gregory

[the-magnificent-otaku-draws]

Chapter: 1/3

Fandoms: Beetlehands (Webcomic)

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Matthew Berd/Kenma (Beetlehands), Matthew Berd & Amelia (Beetlehands), Ayami & Kenma (Beetlehands), Matthew Berd & Ayami (Beetlehands), Amelia & Ayami (Beetlehands), Matthew Berd/Kenma/Dove (Beetlehands), Matthew Berd & Jordan (Beetlehands), Jordan & Amelia (Beetlehands)

Additional Tags: Horror,Psychological Horror,Body Horror,Hurt/Comfort,Emotional Hurt/Comfort,Emotional Manipulation,Emotional Hurt,Angst and Hurt/Comfort,Angst with a Happy Ending,Eventual Happy Ending,Canon-Typical Violence,Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Canon, Fix-It,Misunderstandings,Reconciliation,Family Dynamics,Adopted Sibling Relationship,but ya know,after they try to kill eachother,Established Relationship,Big Brother Matthew (Beetle Hands).Aunt Jordan (Beetle Hands),Little Sister Amelia (Beetle Hands),Implied/Referenced Child Abuse,Aunt-Niece Relationship,Aunt-Nephew Relationship,Just Jordan casually adopting hurt kids,It's her thing

Summary: Matthew had spent what felt like eons in this Hell hole,an endless maze of memories that taunted him in soft whispers. After narrowly escaping The Beast that lurked through the twisting halls he now has the chance to take revenge on the very person that led him into its grasp. Will he take it? Or will he come to realize that maybe these memories and their owners are more alive than he realized?

[crusaderguy]

Next time on DEATH BATTLE.