#that twist reminded me of this

[stenclastiel]

Longlegs (2024)

[jangmi-latte]

wtf man

[egophiliac]

But … how the staff swear? We Need to know that too…(of you want of course … love your art and your Amazing humor!!!)

(thank you! :D)

Trein: said 'damn' once when he was sixteen, still lays awake at night in embarrassment about his deplorable lapse in manners.

Vargas: swears like an old-timey carnival strongman. lots of "poppycock" and "what the devil" and an occasional "deuces!" (this makes classes very confusing for poor Deuce)

Crowley: doesn't intentionally swear, but every once in a while he'll, like...put together a presentation on the new staff policies or something that builds up to an acronym which, by complete coincidence, spells out something shockingly depraved.

it happens often enough that you'd think he's doing it on purpose, except. it's Crowley.

Sam: swears in the text, gets away with it because the character reading is always something else

(this is very specific to the Japanese version and probably too meta but I made myself laugh with it, I...I'm sorry)

[kittykatninja321]

People who write Jason calling Sheila a bitch in his internal monologue don’t understand him I’m sorryyy. I don’t think he’s ever actually said a word against her in canon at the is point. He spent his last moments trying to protect her from the blast even after her betrayal. He is insane in ways you can’t even begin to fathom

[spadesncrows]

in response to glomas making a rerun in en, i decided to draw one of my favorite out of context moments from the event <33

Edit: accidentally forgot his spade LMAOO

+ the og screenshot under the cut :3

[qwakque]

Say Goodbye To Yesterday my Friend

[pocasu]

wishing our briar prince a belated happy birthday 🥹🐉

[ryllen]

tucked in

[padf-0-ot]

sypnosis. a queen waits for the return of the man who promised he would always come back. her lover, who disappeared years ago chasing an adventure only he could see. the court demands a king, and suitors press in, but she remains unmoved, weaving a shroud of time until he returns. then, a challenge: whoever can string her betrothed’s bow and fire an arrow through twelve battle-axes will claim the throne. the suitors fail, but the beggar steps forward, rook, disguised. the bow bends, the arrow flies true, and rook stands before her, alive, and home at last.

note. i was listening to “the challenge” and thought of rook, stupidly enough cause of the bow & i immediately thought of “rook would love this” but you get it ^^’’ !!! immediate apologies if it may seem ooc, or off grammar (unfortunately, english isn’t my first language)

𝕿He. . . loom stretches before you, a seemingly endless web of threads that twine and twist in complex patterns. It feels like an impossible task, one you can never quite complete. Each morning, your fingers move with purpose, the rhythmic motion of weaving pulling you deeper into the task, a desperate distraction from the ache in your chest. Each night, when the rest of the castle has drifted into slumber, you return to the loom to unravel the threads, as if in some way, that will erase the time that’s passed — the time that you’ve been forced to endure without him. They do not know. The suitors who fill your court like hungry wolves — bright smiles and velvet robes hiding the sharp edges of ambition — believe you are near the end, that soon, you will choose a new king.

But you are still his.

He left you years ago, chasing a challenge that only he could see. The great hunter, the man who had seen beauty in every fleeting moment, had sworn to return. His final words still echo in your memory: “Mon amour,” he had whispered, breath warm against your temple, hands pressing over yours. “I leave not for adventure, but for the promise of coming home to you. What is love, if not the patience to wait?”

But patience is cruel, and faith wears thin when it is constantly tested by the long silence between you. The world does not stop spinning while you wait for a man who might never return. You have held your breath for years, hoping against hope that the promise he left you would hold true, but as the days turn into months, and the months into years, you begin to wonder if perhaps the sea has swallowed him whole.

The kingdom stirs. The whispers grow louder each day. It has been too long. He is gone. A queen cannot rule alone forever, they say. And so they press closer, thousands of men draped in velvet and gold, smiles dripping with false sweetness, eyes gleaming with greed. They speak of duty, of stability. They speak of the future.

But what of the past?

The love you held for Rook is not something fragile that can be traded away. It is not a thing to be bartered like the throne you sit upon. And yet, the court grows impatient, the vultures circling, waiting for their moment to swoop in.

“Your Majesty,” one of them says, his voice smooth as silk, his hand lingering too long on the armrest of your throne. “The throne needs a king.“

“A nation without a ruler is weak,” another murmurs, his eyes glinting with something more dangerous than mere concern. “Choose, and we will grant you peace.”

Peace? How.. humourous. As if the love you hold for Rook could ever be bought, as if it were something to be sacrificed to ease their hunger. As if you are not the woman who has held the kingdom together, the queen who ruled with strength and wisdom while he was lost to the world. But they do not understand. They never have.

Still, they will not stop.

So, you buy yourself time. But, is it for yourself?

“I will choose,” you say, your voice steady, betraying none of the chaos inside. “As soon as I finish weaving this shroud.”

They believe you. And so, the cycle continues.

Day after day, you sit at the loom, hands moving with mechanical precision, the rhythm of the work a small comfort in a world that no longer makes sense. You tell yourself that you will be free once it is finished, that once you have completed the task, you can let go. But every night, you return to unravel the work of the day, pulling the threads free, watching the promise of completion slip away like sand through your fingers.

And unexpectedly, the storm will come by.

Huh, the weather today.. seems peculiar. I wonder.

You thought, the sky today looks unlike anything you have ever seen, dark clouds gathering on the horizon, the sea thrashing wildly as though it too were in mourning. The wind howls, rattling the castle walls, and in the darkness of that night, something shifts in the air, a whisper, a possibility. Could it be—?

No.

But still, there is a flicker of something. Was it hope? Something that makes your pulse quicken, something that stirs in your chest and makes your breath catch in your throat.

You do not sleep that night. The next morning, the court is restless, but you do not care. Another suitor has arrived. You barely glance up at first, prepared for the same hollow flattery, the same empty promises they have all offered. Another face, another man desperate for the throne. And then—

“Your Majesty.”

The voice is low, rich, unmistakably familiar.

Your heart stutters in your chest.

You lift your gaze, and the breath leaves your lungs.

There, standing before you in the grand hall, disguised as nothing more than a beggar? A tattered cloak hanging from his shoulders, boots caked in dust, golden hair hidden beneath a hood, is him.

Rook.

“Mon amour,” he breathes, and it is neither a plea nor a question. It is a vow renewed, a promise fulfilled.

The court does not understand why your fingers clutch the armrests of your throne, why your breath trembles in your throat. They do not understand the weight of this moment, the storm that has raged inside you for years, breaking now into sunlight.

But they will.

“A challenge,” you announce, your voice ringing out through the hall, silencing the murmur of voices. “The one who can string my betrothed’s bow and fire an arrow through twelve battle-axes shall take the throne beside me.”

The suitors laugh. They know the stories of Rook’s war bow — the weapon only he had ever been able to wield.

The bow itself, was a testament to strength, a mark of kingship, a relic of a past only one man could claim. Crafted long before his reign, it was a thing of unyielding power, curved in a perfect arc. Only he can wield.

One by one, they step forward, pride on their faces, convinced that they, too, can master the impossible. One by one, they fail. The bow does not bend to their hands. The string does not yield. Each failure cracks their pride, their frustration mounting as they realize that they are not Rook.

And then, the beggar steps forward. The court erupts into laughter.

“Surely, Your Majesty, you do not mean to let this vagrant attempt—”

But you do not stop him. You do not move, barely even breathe as he steps forward, his hands brushing against the polished wood of the bow, a deep, knowing silence settling over the room.

With a swift movement, the bow bends. The string sings its familiar song as he draws it taut, the echo of it resonating through your very bones. You can feel the air shift, the energy in the room snapping like a taut wire.

The arrow flies.

The sound of it is pure. Sharp and true, slicing through the air with deadly precision. It whistles cleanly through each of the twelve axes, the force of it a declaration. A promise.

Silence.

And then, he lifts his head. The hood falls away.

Rook stands before you, golden-haired and smiling, as if no time at all had passed. As if he had never left.

You take a step forward, your breath catching in your throat, but you do not move too quickly, afraid that he might vanish as suddenly as he appeared.

“You’re late,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but it carries through the silence like a blade.

Rook’s smile widens, his eyes sparkling with the same wild fire you remember. “Ah, mon amour,” he breathes. “But I am here.”

And then, he kneels before you.

The years between you crash down like a tidal wave, the weight of everything you’ve endured settling heavily upon your chest. You do not hesitate. You move toward him, your hands trembling as they find his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his cheek. He leans into your touch, eyes closing for a moment, as if memorizing the feel of you, the texture of your skin beneath his fingers.

“I should kill you for making me wait,” you whisper, your voice breaking with the ache of all that has been lost and found again.

“And yet,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your wrist, “you have never looked more beautiful than you do now, in your fury.”

You let out a breath, half a sob, half a laugh. But it is enough. It is everything. You pull him to you, your lips crashing against his, desperate and alive, the years of longing melting into this single, fleeting moment.

The court watches, but you do not care. The suitors recoil, but you do not see them. There is only Rook. his hands in your hair, his arms around you, the warmth of him solid and real after all these years. When you finally pull away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours, and the world is suddenly right again.

“You came back,” you whisper, a question, a plea, a confession.

“Always,” he swears, his voice rough and raw. “I will always find my way back to you.” This time, you believe him.

That night, the castle breathes with a new kind of silence. The suitors have left, some in anger, others in shame, their ambitions shattered like glass beneath the weight of inevitability. The whispers of the court fade into the distant hum of the sea, and for the first time in years, you are alone.

But you are not lonely.

Rook stands before you in your chambers, no longer the beggar who had slipped unnoticed through the doors, but the hunter who had once stolen your heart with laughter and reckless devotion. He is older now —sharper in some places, softened in others — but when he smiles, it is the same as it ever was. Wild and knowing, like he has already mapped out every thought in your head before you can voice it.

And yet, for the first time since his return, he hesitates.

“You are staring, mon amour.” His voice is lighter now, teasing, but underneath it, there is something else. Something unspoken.

You cross your arms, tilting your head. “You disappeared for years, Rook. Forgive me if I wish to confirm that you are not merely a ghost come to haunt me.”

His lips twitch. “And if I were?”

“Then I would curse you for eternity,” you say, stepping closer, until only a breath separates you. “And still, I would not let you leave.”

The teasing falters in his expression, giving way to something raw, something that makes your pulse thunder in your ears. His hands, calloused and sure, come up to cradle your face, his thumb ghosting over the curve of your cheek. “I was gone too long,” he admits, a confession, a wound.

“Yes.”

“I have no excuse.”

“No.”

His fingers tighten, the breath in his chest shuddering. “And yet—” He swallows, eyes burning gold in the candlelight. “Would you still have me, knowing that I am a man who loses himself in the hunt?”

Your breath catches. Not because you do not know the answer, but because he would even dare to ask.

You take his hand, pressing his palm flat against your chest, where your heart beats strong and steady. “You left,” you say. “And I waited. And I cursed you. And I wept for you. And still—” You inhale, exhale, let the weight of the years settle between you before crushing them beneath your next words. “Still, my heart knows only your name.”

Rook lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, but it is too broken, too relieved to be anything but the unraveling of something long-held. “Then it seems,” he murmurs, leaning in, his forehead pressing against yours, “I have found my way home after all.”

He kisses you, it is not with the desperation of before. It is steady, certain. It is the promise he made you all those years ago, at last fulfilled.

© 2025 padf-0-ot . i only post in this app ^ᴗ^

[sickwhispers]

WRAPPED IN A PRETTY PINK BOW

Pairing: (twisted) glisten x reader

Relationship: romantic

Warnings: yandere, kidnapping, delusions, reader does not enjoy being held against their will, forced affection(?), baby's first attempt at writing toon gore (not towards reader or glisten), no beta just me and grammarly

Type: one-shot (1,404 words)

It was always so soft… so gentle and calming. A rhythmic cycle of one hum after the other, then a pause, and then back to humming. His finger trailed down the sides of the little pink bow he had used to restrain you, rendering you helpless against his own selfish wishes. The soft fabric becoming an almost soothing sensation to him by now as the ribbon muffled any chance of protest you might have tried to voice. 

You were so lovely. Found him the second you entered this hell hole of a floor and lit a fire inside his chest that kept that tiny dwindling spark of hope from finally being snuffed. Loneliness was never his strong suit. But here you were.

“I'm so glad you're here…” his voice was soft, a whisper that seemed to fade into nothing the second the words had left your mouth and into the quiet atmosphere surrounding the both of you. His hand slipped away from your wrists and up to your face, cupping it with a touch so gentle that it was hard to tell if this was the same man that had held you down with such desperation just a couple hours ago. “I'm sorry I was so rough earlier…”

There was an obvious sign of regret behind his words. His thumb gently stroked at the spot just under your eye, observing the way your gaze seemed to flicker around. Your chest moved in rapid succession—up and then down and then up again. It was such a small detail compared to every little action your body had been making ever since he decided getting on the elevator wasn't something he felt would be best for you.

And, with the same gentleness he had been carrying before, he shifted you slightly until he had your back pressed against him. Your body resting just between his legs as he held you much more closer than he had previously. And, your attempt at moving away was met with an increasingly firm grasp. A soft gasp being his first audible reply to your squirming before letting out a weak: “Oh no-! Wait- please don't move…”

He couldn't let you move away. Not now. Not until he knew you weren't running away. He couldn't stand the thought of you slipping out of his sight. The versions of his friends he had once grown to love were no longer as safe as they used to be. The ichor corrupts not only their mind but their psychical forms as well. You could get hurt. You could get torn to shreds.

“You can't go yet! They could hurt you. They could hurt us. Please, just a little while longer…” You were too fragile like this. He knew the others. How brutal they were. The second they laid a hand on you, he knew you'd be brought down. He had seen it before, their hands ripping at a chest, tearing through the body and breaking it open with a crack as ichor would flow through every little wound that they would inflict. A choked gasp coming from the unfortunate toon who had decided to turn a corner a little too late, missing the sound of footsteps coming from behind them.

Each scene was worse than the last. Watching the life drain from a toon right in front of him as they gave quick spasms, legs twitching as the pool of ichor would surround not only them, but him as well. The ichor staining the bottom of his feet such a dark black that even after a million scrubs, he'd never be able to get it off.

He didn't want that to happen to you. He couldn't let that happen to you.

“Just trust me, okay? Please… just be patient. I promise I won't do anything. I need you to stay here. To stay here with me.” Even as your body thrashed around helplessly, he still never loosened his grip. You were too special, too nice. He couldn't give you up. He couldn't let you be taken away from him again. Don't you understand? You need to stay with him.

The loneliness was driving him insane, hearing footsteps even when no one was there, begging for some sign of a living being that didn't bear any kind of resemblance to the corpses he'd spot—a never-ending cycle of walking around in circles.

Maybe he could keep you forever. Maybe this was the best course of action. You didn't have anyone with you when you ventured out to this floor, and he was sure you wouldn't have anyone searching for you. So, you were alone. 

Alone. 

You were alone.

Alone like him.

You could be alone together. He needed company. You needed the help. You could be alone together. It was the perfect option. He wouldn't have to spend his days talking to himself anymore. Please stop squirming. You know he doesn't mean any harm. He knows his grip is tight, but it's only temporary.

Just calm down, just let him hold you. Let him feel you. Let him remind himself that you exist, that you're real and alive and breathing. Stop trying to tell him you want to leave, he's not letting you. What aren't you getting? 

Don't you see he's trying to help you? Don't you see you're the only thing keeping him sane? Your body thrashes once more in his grasp, and despite how gentle he wants to be, his grip around you tightens, bringing you closer against him as he lets out a frustrated sigh. Even with a singular eye remaining, it isn't hard to tell you want to go.

But you can't. You can't go. You're here now. You're home.

He's your home now, and you're his.

“I know this will take some getting used to. But, please, this is for your own good.” You couldn't remember the last time he had ever looked this desperate. A whine slipped through his words as he clung onto you, trying to savor the feeling of every little aspect of your form he could touch. Surely staying with him isn't that bad, right? He could make you happy. Just a little longer in his arms, and you'll understand what he's trying to get at. You're just nervous.

You're just not used to having someone love you so much. You were alone on this floor. Who's to say you weren't alone on any of the other ones? You just haven't gotten used to having company. He gets it. He can understand. He can be patient. He can get you used to the constant presence of someone nearby, holding you, keeping you safe, showing you all the love you missed out on.

“Just be quiet for now, okay? Enjoy the moment. You look so beautiful right now, even more than when I first met you.” He could barely remember the day. Years of isolation blurring the memories he had cherished so much. But he could remember some things. Specific things. Like the way you had smiled at him, eyes wide with what looked to be amusement. 

He had said something, and you laughed. He couldn't remember what he said, but he knew it wasn't anything resembling a joke because the embarrassment he felt was something he continued to carry on to this day. You tried to apologize at the time, and yet you couldn't get a single word out without laughing.

He wanted to hear you laugh again.

“...and you look like a little present, just for me.” He let himself lean closer, resting his head against yours in a fashion that was supposed to resemble a kiss. And yet, with his face shattered to practically nothing, there was no way to kiss you properly. But that was okay. He could show you love in other ways. 

And, hopefully, once you got used to the idea of staying, you'd be the one starting the affection. He couldn't help but wonder just how loving you could be. Would you kiss him gently? Would you cradle his face despite how broken he was? Would you be mindful of the shards and caress them? Tell him he's perfect no matter how smudged his makeup was or how many times you'd cut a finger on his edges?

He needs you to stay. He's not as perfect as he once was, but he needs to know you still love him. He needs you.

[estcaligo]

Can't wait to see Sebek's reaction if we're really going to the Coral Sea lol. Because remember Jade's words? :)

[egophiliac]

What do you think riddle's dad is like? He was so randomly dropped lol are they divorced? Unhappy couple? Off getting milk with Ruggie's dad????

I swear he talks about his dad at some point? (I thought it was one of the birthday cards, but I just skimmed through them all and didn't see it, I am at a loss as to where else it might be). assuming I didn't just make it up, his parents are still together, but they don't actually get along very well and his dad mostly just...avoids interacting with them both. just in case you were worried for a second that Riddle might have one non-sucky parent! 👍

honestly is it any wonder that Trey spent thirty seconds with him and immediately was like

[bunnwich]

Wanted to make a simple outfit for Yuu inspired by my fav Lion Guard character. I think they would probably just dress in something cool for the weather.

🌙🌳

[softroundbunny]

the biggest romantic gesture is getting her pregnant. do you know how madly in love you must be to choose this girl to have your babies? to have little ones running around with your eyes and her hair color? her pregnancy being a loud and visible sign that says “she’s mine!” with that round belly you gave her and your baby on her hip, people may look at her but they’ll know she’s clearly loved and taken cared for.

as a hopeless romantic, it’d be outrageous if i didn’t have a breeding + pregnancy kink !!! what’s more romantic than this?

[crystallizsch]

releasing this rn out into the wild because this was the other art i was holding hostage in my drafts for weeks 🧍 anyways. this is pirate navigator jamil fanart from @cheerleaderman's never-cove fan event <3

anyways i'm just grasping at straws and thinking this is somewhat tangentially related to the lantern of wishes event—

[qwakque]

Rolloooooo