Latest Posts by tiredbirdnerd - Page 2

i hate this place i want to go to build a bear

Birds Dont Sing

sylus x reader | fluff, comfort, a little bit angsty if you squint

this was a request from a kind anon reader♡

summary: sylus silently watches you being vulnerable in front of mephisto

Your apartment was unusually still, wrapped in that soft kind of quiet that only happens on slow afternoons. The kind where time doesn't stop, but stretches, languid and warm.

You were lying back against the cushions of the couch, one arm tucked behind your head, eyes closed as your face was graced with a soft smile, while Mephisto was perched on top of your stomach. Your tired gaze trailed toward the slivers of sunlight as they slipped beneath the horizon beyond the windowpane, painting the city in deep pinks and dusky purples, the last light smudging the skyline like fading watercolors.

Mephisto blinked at you, head tilting just slightly as if studying you with more than just curiosity. Almost like he understood you.

''You're so much gentler than you look, you know that?'' you murmured to the crow, voice just above a whisper.

Mephisto let out a soft click in response, the kind Sylus had once said, was the equivalent of a purr. Your fingers reached out slowly, pausing just before touching him. You always gave him that choice. Sylus had told you Mephisto could be wary, even proud, like a living bird. But today, he stepped closer without hesitation, lowering his head slightly, so you could run a finger along the smooth arch of his neck.

''I'm glad you're here. Both of you. You…help me feel safe.''

Mephisto tilted his head at you, blinking once, and stayed perfectly still. Almost like he was listening. Really listening.

You sighed, settling deeper into the cushions, fingertips still idly brushing from his sleek metallic head, down to his neck and up again. ''You and Sylus…you make everything feel a little less heavy.''

Unseen by you, the door to the kitchen opened moments before. Sylus stood quietly just inside the frame, unnoticed, one hand resting lightly against the wood as he watched you.

He hadn't meant to eavesdrop. He'd simply come back from the kitchen to tell you that dinner was ready. But then he'd seen you, resting softly, speaking so earnestly. And Mephisto, the one creature he trusted without question, perched like a sentinel on top of you, his wings tucked neatly against his sides, responding to your affection like he was more than metal and wire. Like he had a soul. And his footsteps had gone silent out if instinct. He didn't move. Didn't speak. He just stood and listened.

Sylus swallowed the unexpected ache rising in his throat.

Because this wasn't a side of you most people get to see. This quiet, gentle kind of sadness. The longing for reassurance you rarely gave voice to. The way you looked at Mephisto, his creation, with such raw trust.

Sylus had built the crow to be an extension of himself in the field. His eyes in the dark, his silent defense, an extension of efficiency.But he'd never imagined this. That Mephisto could become something softer. A quiet presence. A guardian of your peace. A comfort.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was low. Gentle.

''I think he likes you,'' he said quietly, breaking the silence just enough to let his voice slip in.

You blinked, startled, eyes flying open as your hand jerked back in surprise. ''Sylus! I- I didn't hear you come in.''

He stepped forward, crouching beside the couch and reaching out to lightly scratch Mephisto behind the head in the spot only he seemed to know. The bird chirped happily.

''He's picky,'' Sylus said, smirking just a little. ''He doesn't let just anyone touch him. You've earned his trust.''

You laughed under your breath, cheeks flushing. ''He's a good listener.''

Sylus tilted his head. ''So am I.''

There was a pause, quiet and meaningful.

Your voice softened again. ''Sometimes…it's easier to say the things I'm scared of out loud when I think no one's listening.''

He nodded, understanding in his gaze as he leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

''I was listening,'' he murmured. ''And I'm glad you feel safe. That's all I want for you, sweetheart.''

''I worry sometimes,'' you admitted, eyes drifting down to Mephisto again. ''That I lean on you too much. That I'm not strong enough. I try not to show it, but…today, I just needed a quiet moment. And he was here. Like he knew.''

Sylus reached out, hand brushing against yours where it rested on the couch. His touch was cool, steady. Grounding.

''You never have to hide that from me,'' he said quietly. ''Your strength doesn't come from pretending you're okay. It comes from choosing to stay open. Even when it's hard.''

Your throat tightened at his words. You nodded, swallowing thickly.

''I see you,'' he added voice low and reverent. ''Every part. And I love all of it.''

Mephisto chirped again, wings fluttering just slightly before settling. You and Sylus both looked down at him, and for a beat, it was as if the three of you existed in your own pocket of the world. Quiet, safe, whole.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against Sylus's, your hand softly squeezing his.

''Thank you,'' you whispered. ''For listening. For knowing.''

He kissed your temple, lingering.

''Always.''

Gender is a performance and it’s time to play the music it’s time to light the lights it’s time to meet the muppets on the muppets show tonight

this was a request from a kind anon.

summary: reader who really likes horror movies.

xavier | zayne | sylus | caleb

rafayel x reader | fluff

Rafayel watches you from where he's lounging sideways on your couch, head propped on a pillow like some tragic Victorian poet. He looks criminally comfortable for someone sitting through a 1970s horror slasher. The kind with grainy film and uncomfortably long shots of people doing absolutely nothing before something awful happens.

But you, you are in your element.

You're sitting cross-legged with your notebook in your lap. Well, notebook is a strong word. It's more like a fabric-bound monster of its own. A monstrosity of dog-eared pages, scribbled thoughts, bookmarks made of candy wrappers, and a paperclip that's given up on doing anything useful.

You're scribbling furiously with a glittery gel pen as the killer's silhouette appears behind the protagonist on screen.

''You see that?'' you say, eyes gleaming as you pause the movie, so you can better gesture with your pen. ''They used high-contrast techniques to create deep shadows and strong highlights, blurring the line between the physical and the psychological. It's a callback to The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari-expressionist influences, full circle. Ugh! So good.''

Rafayel raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

''Cutie,'' he says, voice thick with amused affection, ''only you could make murder sound like a love letter.''

You grin without looking up. ''I don't like the gore, I like the craft. There's intention in every frame. Every light. Every angle. The violence is just…contextual punctuation.''

He hums thoughtfully. ''A semicolon of suffering.''

''Exactly!''

There's a moment of silence as you flip a few more pages, trying to find your breakdown of the film's lighting progression. Rafayel leans over a little, pretending to peer into the book, but mostly just using it as an excuse to get closer.

He taps one corner gently. ''Is that…a pressed flower?''

''Yes. From the Suspiria screening. The remake, not the original.''

''Of course,'' he murmurs, clearly having no idea what that means but delighted all the same.

Then, softly, ''You carry entire universes in this book of yours.''

You blink, caught off guard. ''It's just a notebook.''

He smiles like you've said something heartbreakingly naive. ''It's a testament. To what you love. To how your mind works. And if I may say so,'' he traces the notebook's tattered edge with a fingertip, ''that is its own kind of romance.''

You feel your face heat up.

''I mean, if you really want romance,'' you say, trying to regain footing, ''we could watch Crimson Peak next. The actors have said that it's a very passionate love story, supported and complemented by fantastic elements. And not to forget, it's the first film in the Mystery Horror Genre. ''

He exhales a laugh. ''That might be the most you version of flirting I've ever heard.''

You bump your shoulder against his, smiling. ''You're still here listening.''

''Cutie, I would sit through a thousand jump scares and a dozen cursed VHS tapes just to hear you talk about third-act structure and prosthetic gore.''

''…Even found footage films?''

He shudders. ''Let's not test the strength of my devotion.''

You laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder as you unpause the movie. He adjusts slightly, letting you rest against him while your chunky notebook stays balanced in your lap. His hand finds yours, thumb brushing softly over your fingers as the scene resumes.

Blood erupts on cue, the soundtrack crashing down like a closing curtain.

And Rafayel smiles, because nothing makes him feel more enchanted than seeing you light up in the dark, explaining why fear on film is just another way to understand the human heart.

make a comic

Can you steal a style? In my opinion, you can’t - but you can definitely learn a lot from studying someone’s art style. Here’s some of my thoughts on that - and some Leyendecker studies to go with it!

This is a preview of my 40 minute tutorial on how to steal a style. Watch the full version here!

We’re gonna getcha

Nautilus expedition live streams (+ their commentary) | 2024

lookin' dolly i think i may go out tonight

tags: raf x reader, established relationship! domestic fluff, kissing his face to test kiss-proof lippies, raf is drunk on ur lips!

hiii this is my first fic here omg! i just needed this out of my brain omg i've been thinking about loopy raf... hazy and just thinking about getting kissed...

˖°𓇼🌊⋆🐚🫧

“Raf, turn— here, let me—“

You pull his face closer and turn it slightly to the side where there’s a spot on his cheek that’s still clean of any marks.

Smooch.

You kiss him firmly there, leaving another set of lip shaped stain on his otherwise pristine fair skin.

“Hm, still leaves a mark…”

You let his face go, and you don’t note how quiet Rafayel had gotten. You rub your lips gently, using a soft cleansing wipe, and then grab another lip product from the box that Aunt Talia sent. It takes a little bit of maneuvering, from your seat on his lap, his arms wrapped in some way or another on your waist.

Aunt Talia has got a lot of PR packages from makeup brands, but there’s certain shades she doesn’t really wear. So she sends them to you, for you to pick whichever ones you liked. 

This particular product glides smoothly onto your lips. There’s a little bit of cherry fragrance although not strong, and the colour’s a bit too dark, but you can imagine a bolder makeup look that would compliment this colour.

Perhaps you can wear it to one of Rafayel’s banquet whenever. 

You grab Rafayel’s face again, and you finally notice his silence. His eyes are hazy and there’s a lazy smile on his face. He giggles as your fingers grip tighter on his cheeks, puckering his lips. Feeling mischievous, you eye him, “What are you smiling about?”

You don’t wait for his answer because it’s obvious why. So you only lean closer, and kiss him firm and square on the corner of his top lip, where there’s still a bit of pale skin instead of shades of pink or red. 

He giggles again, and it’s loopy, “Hehe. Wife, somft.”

You pull back and look at him dreamily, he’s a mess of lipstick stains, a stray lip shaped stain on his neck, and even on the mole on his chest, the top buttons of his shirt undone.

“Yeah?” You chirp with a lilt in your voice. It’s playful and not at all serious. Your fingers rub gently on his skin, and if Rafayel was a little more sober, he’d say he’s not purring.

But like this, he’s pliant and relaxed, his body basically melted like butter into the couch. He didn’t even consume any alcohol. Drunk and hazy solely from your kisses.

His hands squeeze your waist, once, and then twice, and you hum in contentment.

“This one also leaves a stain. When will we find one that’s kiss-proof?” You ask and you pretend you’re exasperated. Like it’s such a shame that there’s no kiss-proof lippie from the box from Aunt Talia.

“Ihopenoneofthemarekiss-proof.”

“What was that?” You ask with mirth. Now you’re both a mess of giggles.

He doesn’t answer and instead he grabs the lippie from your hand, and swipes it again onto your lip. He’s a little concentrated now, eyebrows furrowing and it’s so adorable, you have to hold yourself back from attacking him with your lips while he’s applying the lipstick.

Finally, he puts the lipstick away, and then he pulls your face closer to him, initiating the kiss first this time. But this kiss lasts longer than a few seconds, it’s not intended for a kiss-proof test, but instead it’s a passionate push and pull of your lips, to pour his fondness into you in one of the ways he knew how.

You let yourself fall into it, closing your eyes and humming into his mouth. You tilt your head a little and pull yourself closer to him, straddling him, his hips between the plush of your thighs. His hands roam under your shirt, mapping your skin. His touches are warm, just like his breaths against your lips each time he dives in for another kiss.

Pulling away, breathless, you gaze into his eyes again. Still loopy and hazy. Perhaps you are too now.

“You look drunk.” You offhandedly mention it, your fingers playing with the ends of his hair on the back of his neck. He chuckles, but it’s breathy and his fingers squeeze the skin of your waist. 

“I’m drunk on your kisses, my sweet darling. The strongest liquor can’t compare to these addicting lips.” His hand comes up to cup your face then, thumb grazing on your lip, and then the pad of his finger swipes the product off your lips, smudging it to the side of your lip.

“We still haven’t found a kiss-proof lipstick. If we don’t find one, then I think you’ll have my kiss marks more times than not when we’re out for your public appearances…”

“Promise?” He smirks and it’s one of the times you will not admit it gets your heart palpitating. Even if Rafayel flirts like this more often these days, you don’t seem to be able to get used to it. Rafayel probably doesn’t want you to either.

Thus, the only logical response is to playfully punch his chest.

“Ow! Cutie!” He pretends it hurts and pays you back by tickling your sides.

Falling back against his soft couch, he falls forward with you, his fingers still attacking your ticklish spots. Perhaps the kiss-proof lipstick test will have to wait some other day.

Who would win: Person who has auditory processing issues vs. somebody who doesn't know basic vocabulary and explains everything with twice as many words as necessary with 50% less precision.

Shout out to the little girl at my store today who had a shirt that said "skeleton mouse" and she was carrying around a plushie of a rat, had hair clips in her hair that had rats on them, and a necklace with a rodent skull on it.

As I was checking her mother out at the register she pulled out a handful of rubber rats from her pocket and put them on my counter, to which her mother sighed and said "no sweetie, he doesn't need rats" to which I just looked at her like this

Diver convince octopus to trade his plastic cup for a seashell

so my sister's dog is very very wary around new people, barking and circling and hiding behind furniture, and i haven't seen this dog in 3 years since before i transitioned. i.e. i went from futch aunt to bald james flint, so i'm like, ah shit, i'll have to introduce myself to this dog all over again.

so im sitting on the ground very non-threateningly as The Creature is circling with her tail between her legs. and then i remember something the adoption agency told me when i first adopted my blind dog, Loki. they said "talk to him ALL THE TIME!! dogs learn who people are by the way their breath smells! nobody knows that."

so i think. Oh, excellent. and I grab The Creature by the face, pull her toward me, and blow air straight into her nose.

AND IT FUCKING WORKED.

her mouth opened into this big old smile and she immediately started wagging her tail like "oh, it's you! Hi! sorry. something changed, but idk it doesn't matter anymore" and she was an unstoppable cuddle bug aftter that.

anyway psa if you've transitioned and are visiting a dog who you once knew, breathe on their face.

trying to divvy out kinks to your ocs is lowkey embarrassing but also feels like this

i feel these needed to be compiled. feel free to add more genre related posts in the notes if you want

GBBO: “A s’more is basically just an Italian merengue sandwiched between two ganache-covered digestives”

Americans:

little kids make me laugh. i was at a party yesterday and a kid was there and she noticed that i have a long straight cut along the length of my thumb and asked about it, so i told her it was a cat scratch, almost healed, didn't hurt. and then she was sorta staring and touching it for a bit and went "you had bone surgery. because there were termites in your bones."

so i played along and went "oh man, i hope they got em all!" and she went "no. they put in more." lmao

Made Rafayel like this scene in Princess Mononoke 💕 I was supposed to draw my MC but artblock hit hard so… If you want to draw you MC feel free to do it, would make a nice collab/DTIYS actually 😊

I hate how often some (typically abled) people will go “well, if you can’t [get a specific support], then what?” when it comes to disabilities. As if it’s a “gotcha” moment. And then act like you’re exaggerating when you answer that question honestly.

Disabled people often die from a lack of support. A lot of disability aids are not a luxury, but a basic need in order to live.

“Well what happens if—” people die. People hurt themselves. People hurt others. Disabled people don’t magically become abled if our needs aren’t met.

If a bedbound quadriplegic is caught in a housefire, and there’s nobody there to save them, they’ll probably die. They won’t magically become able-bodied out of sheer will.

If a nonspeaking/nonverbal autistic is denied access to alternative methods of communication, they’ll suffer in silence. They won’t spontaneously become capable of speech.

Disabled people are disabled all the time. Our disabilities don’t go away just because they’re inconvenient, or if we’re in danger.

You ever hear that old chestnut about how most people neglect the part of the story of Icarus where he also had to avoid flying too low, lest the spray of the sea soak his feathers and cause him to fall and drown? You ever think about how different the world would be if Icarus died that way instead? If the idiom was to Fly To Close To The Sea? A warning against playing it far too safe, about not stretching your wings and soaring properly? You ever think about how Icarus died because he was happy?

I had a really bad migraine last night, but I've run out of everything except these hungarian pain killers my dad gave me 9 years ago, anyway I don't remember anything and I can't feel my tongue and the only thing in my search history is this

Loved one got top surgery yesterday so I made this for him but I think y’all would appreciate it too

A friend has once again brought it to my attention that it is unusual to have an intact chronological memory of life prior to age 12 and you know what’s weird to ME is that the rest of yall forgot how to sing the clean-up song

It's so weird to me when people are like 'but that will cost the government money!' So what? They're the government, they're supposed to be spending money. What, you want them to take your tax dollars and then do nothing with it? Lock it all up in a big government vault and just look at it? Why are you so scared of giving a third grader lunch or a homeless person a house.

Yeah sure everyone's into being kinky and bringing toys into the bedroom but the moment you pull out one of these to try and grab his dick then suddenly everyone's got a problem

That’s a cute foot fetish you got there, would you mind keeping it 25796323689432 feet away from me?