#and the genuine care and respect they have for one another

[patri56001]

Another fic about Tim Drake, this time is with Talia Al Ghul.

In my head Tim is gender fluid (pronouns? YES) and the kind of feminist that accepts women's rights and women's wrongs. He loves Talia's style and vibe, he doesn't get the hate Dick has for her nor why she loves Bruce so much (for Tim, Bruce is just a guy, he's Batman, but still just a guy). He is a little bitter that the only Al Ghul he genuinely likes and respects doesn't like him at all. All bc Ra's is obsessed with him and Damian hates him.

So after one too many rants from both Ra's and Damian, Talia is so fucking done that she kidnapped Tim with the intention of killing him. And while she is mid rant about why she has to kill him, to solidify Damian's place as heir of the Al Ghul family and Wayne family; Tim, who only had like 3 hours of sleep in the last 4 days, just snaps at her.

"FOR FUCKS SAKE! I DON'T WANT TO BE RAS HEIR, AND I'M ONLY CEO OF WE BC HE WAS GOING TO DESTROY IT AND BRUCE HASN'T TAKEN IT BACK! I DON'T WANT YOUR CRUSTY OLD AS A FART FATHER'S ATTENTION NOR LEGACY. AND I BARELY WANTED TO BE ADOPTED BY BRUCE IN THE FIRST PLACE, THE ONLY ONES WHO HAS A PROBLEM WITH ME ARE YOU AND DAMIAN FFS GET A FUCKING GRIP IF I HAD A SAY YOU'D HAVE THE LEAGUE OF ASSASSINS ALREADY BUT YOUR CRUSTY CREEP OLD AS SHIT DAD IS TOO MUCH OF A MISOGYNISTIC FUCKER TO DO SO" And Talia is just stunned bc she was under the impression that Tim was playing games with the family and tells him as much.

"No Talia, I'm not playing games, I wanted to be a photographer when I grew up, not a CEO listening to half-witted middle age fuckers who think that I need to listen to them bc they are older than me. ALSO I'VE BEEN EMANCIPATED FOR 3 YEARS." Tim says angry "And by the way, why the fuck are so hung up on Bruce's ass??? He is just a guy, you are Talia Al Ghul, you are one of the best fighters on earth, and you are hung up on a guy in a bat costume with untreated mental issues??? Have some self respect"

Talia opens and closes her mouth trying to defend herself but can't. "Beloved is very.... Smart and charming man..." She says weakly.

"So is Pedro Pascal, more handsome too" Tim deadpan. "Can I go now? I have a meeting at 9:30 tomorrow and I still have to patrol tonight "

"Child you have dark circles the size of Mount Everest, you need rest... Now I... Apologies for the misunderstanding, it was wrong to assume your intentions. But I'm under the impression that Beloved won't be too pleased if you don't rest tonight."

Tim rolls his eyes "You don't have to compensate for your assumptions just bc you were wrong about them, you don't have to fake to care about me for Bruce's sake either, as for him, he is too busy to notice right now, given that your brat is currently trying to adopt a litter of puppies."

Talia frowns at that, she knows Damian's fondness of animals but doesn't he have close to 10 pets already? She lets Tim go and they part ways. But something is bugging her... In her surveillance of Tim, he looked so tired and skinny, barely drinking water, only eating when needed to survive and drink an ungodly amount of energy drinks... She starts to feel something in her stomach, like when she saw Jason after the pit... Then it clicked... And just accept that Tim is her son now. She stops mid way home, sends a message to her father that she is going on a personal mission to fix some wrong doings. Ra's doesn't ask many questions, none at all. The next thing she knows, is that she is at Tim's 'nest' and she is sending for cleaners and food, Tim returns to find her chilling in his living room like nothing is abnormal.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?"

"Language, Timothy, I'm simply here to get some things right and let you know about our new relationship development."

"Oh ?? Our new what??"

"I'm here as a courtesy to tell you that I have adopted you." Talia says it's like an obvious development.

"I beg your finest pardon" Tim stares with wide eyes, "Talia you can't - wha- why?!"

"My dear child, we'll talk more once you have eaten, taken a shower and slept for at least 8 hours"

And he is too shocked and tired to question it so he just goes along with whatever she says, probably thinks it's an hallucination. He sleeps for like 10 hours, wakes up to find her making him breakfast, and they talk, Tim is still a little shocked and weary of her bc of the sudden change of heart. But she stayed with him for like a week, and they exchanged phone numbers, and emails, and he just rocks with it? Listen, he is a mom's kid through and through, he gets to have two badass moms and he ain't complaining about it. Of course he tells the rest of the core four and Cass, so whenever she comes to visit they don't freak out.

Slowly but surely, Talia reprimands Damian for his hate towards Timothy, "he is your older brother, Habibi" and Dami is confused but that's his mother so he tries.

The most confused is Ra's, bc "what do you mean I cannot kidnap the Detective, Talia?"

"Father, he has an important gathering with his friends, it is best to let him be."

"How do you know that?!"

"Because he is my child? And we talk, now leave him alone."

Ra's is just dumbfounded, "what do you mean he is your child?? Since when-?"

"Honestly father, since like 5 months ago. Haven't you seen the paperwork stating that he is now my child? Like Jason and Damian." Talia raises an eyebrow and leaves to call her new son.

And Ra's is just left there processing the new information. Queue them going to Gotham to visit the bat family. Everyone is panicking bc they don't visit unless they have something dangerous going on. But Tim is just chilling in a corner waiting for the chaos to arrive. Talia and Ra's, arrived at the manor, everyone is greeting them, Talia hugs Damian and Jason, then turns around towards Tim-

"Oh my sweet child, you look far better than the last time I visited" and hugs Tim tightly and starts checking him for injuries.

"Mother, you look beautiful as always- Mom, please last time you visited I had a stab wound." Tim says casually.

"And two hours of sleep, plus a couple of bruised ribs." Talia frowns but sees Tim is fine. Everyone is staring at them like

??? What is happening???

"Oh right, I forgot to mention that Talia adopted me five months ago, and I guess Ras finding out it's the reason for the visit, right, Mom?" Tim says innocently still hugging Talia and looking smug at Damian, who is having a small stroke.

Ra's is trying to get his attention, "Welcome to the family-"

"Talia might be my mom but I refuse to be called your grandchild, my only grandfather is Alfred." Tim says coldly.

"But-"

"Father, don't embarrass yourself, what Tim says is final!" Talia stared at him, challenging him to say anything at all. After all, after a few conversations with Tim, she has started to respect herself more and would not tolerate her father's shit anymore.

[gav-san]

Cook Wanted, Crisis Found: 1/2

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

Two-shot: Prime!Silvers Rayleigh x reader Length: 7 K+ Rating: 16+ (Language & Slight sexual content)

All Gol D. Roger wanted was a decent cook. Unfortunately, you fed them once. Now you’re emotionally held hostage by the most chaotic crew on the sea, being aggressively courted by a half-shirted war criminal with excellent manners and terrible timing. Rayleigh doesn’t just flirt. He haunts your kitchen like a respectful poltergeist, makes eye contact like it’s foreplay, and threatens anyone who compliments your hands.

You guys see in the latest OP SBS that Rogder didn't have a cook? Congrats, you are now the cook.

@thatanonymouschocolate

“I Asked for a Cook, Not a Crisis” —as told by the Pirate King, who is clearly not in control anymore

The first time you met them, you thought they were a plague.

Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. A genuine, loud-mouthed, sunburnt infestation with too much gold and zero sense of portion control. The kind of pirates who walked like the world was theirs by default, and anyone not handing them a drink was an obstacle.

They arrived in the middle of the lunch rush, clattering down the dock like the worst kind of omen. You caught the sound of them first: boots on splintered wood, laughter far too confident for a group that had evidently just rolled off a ship. They smelled like the sea, sweat, smoke, and freshly acquired trouble.

Your stall wasn’t much. No sign. No clever name painted on driftwood. No chalkboard menu with quaint little sketches. Just a rusted stove, a chipped wok, and your cutting glare, which you used as both weapon and deterrent. You weren’t running a restaurant so much as defending a sacred outpost of sanity. And then they showed up.

The one in the straw hat—Roger, though you didn’t know it yet—flashed a grin like a man who thought charm could substitute for manners. He leaned across the counter and tried to flirt, completely undeterred by your dead-eyed stare.

Scopper Gaban followed suit, slinging his arms onto the counter and asking, with all the self-satisfaction of a man who’d never been hit with a ladle, whether you were on the menu.

A red-haired child knocked over an entire pot of soup in his enthusiasm, scrambling to apologize while slipping on spilled broth and yelling about how it wasn’t his fault.

The blue-haired one took a single bite, declared the seasoning overrated, then immediately choked on a rogue pepper flake and turned an impressive shade of crimson. You stood there, arms crossed, watching him wheeze with complete disinterest.

You didn’t say a word. Just kept stirring, your ladle scraping the bottom of the wok in slow, steady circles, like a countdown to something unfortunate.

And while the others filled the space with noise and ego, one man said nothing at all.

He sat at the far end of your stall, elbows resting on the counter, and ate like he had been starving for something specific and had finally found it. No commentary. No swagger. No smug remark.

Just silence, and eyes that didn’t leave you once.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t ask for anything.

He simply ate, slow and careful, like the food you’d made deserved reverence. Like you did.

And when he looked up, it wasn’t with surprise or delight. It was with something heavier, like reco, liken. Like he was seeing something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

You should have kicked them all out. Should have dumped the pot, closed up early, and let them find someone else to bother.

Instead, you slid another bowl toward the quiet one.

He called himself Rayleigh.

You should have known better than to appreciate a pirate. But gods, you looked.

Tall and broad, weathered skin weathered by sun and salt, golden hair falling over sharp eyes like something out of a myth. He wore his confidence like it had been custom-stitched to his bones, every movement unhurried, every breath measured. Swagger poured into sinew and sin.

His voice hadn’t even touched your ears yet, and already your knees were whispering mutiny.

He leaned close once, reaching for a spice jar above your head. His arm brushed your back in passing. The contact was brief, almost careless, but your soul immediately exited your body and filed for early retirement. You didn’t even pretend to be composed. Just stood there, blinked once, and tried to remember what your own name was.

Then he called you “sweetheart.”

You nearly dropped the cleaver.

Your brain hiccupped so hard it forgot how to form opinions. It was less a reaction and more a full-body short circuit, the kind of internal meltdown that made you question if years of self-discipline could be unraveled by one word in that tone from that man.

And the worst part?

He didn’t even seem to be trying.

Rayleigh just ate. Quietly. Slowly. Every bite unhurried. Like the food in front of him was sacred. Like he wasn’t just refueling after a fight or soaking up rum with starch, but discovering something rare. Something real.

He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t praise the flavor. Didn’t lick his lips and wink like the others.

He just looked up when he was finished, eyes lingering on you, and in that moment, the world seemed to tilt slightly off its axis.

He stared like a man might look at a storm rolling in over open sea. A storm he’d already decided to walk into. Calm. Certain. Almost grateful. As if he knew exactly what it would cost him and had made peace with it.

You told yourself you weren’t flustered, and that your hands that didn’t tremble a little when you turned back to the stove. That you weren’t tracking the sound of his breath behind you with every move you made.

You should have known then. Should have locked the spice cabinet, packed up your knives, and vanished before anything could slip beneath your skin.

But instead?

You fed them.

And that was the first mistake.

The next time they showed up, they were half-dead.

They staggered in just after dusk, trailing blood and seawater, limping like they had fought the ocean and lost. Clothing torn, weapons missing, one of them missing a boot. They smelled like smoke and brine and something far too close to cannon powder. You weren’t sure who was supporting who, or if they were all just leaning on each other out of stubborn pride.

Roger was shouting something incoherent about Marines, sea kings, and a completely unnecessary bet involving dynamite and a pack of wild dogs. Buggy was pale and wheezing, clutching his side like he was holding in his own liver. Shanks looked like he’d fallen off a cliff. Twice.

You didn’t ask.

You just sighed, kicked open the door to the back of your stall, and started dragging them in by the collar one at a time. You swore the entire time. Loudly. Fluently. With real creativity. Muttered something about pirates being the worst kind of customer and demanded to know if anyone had filed a damn insurance policy. No one answered.

You threw them onto spare cushions, slapped bandages over whatever was bleeding the worst, and brewed a broth so potent it might have been considered medicinal in certain parts of the world and outright illegal in others. You shoved ladles of it between cracked lips and threatened to strangle anyone who complained about the salt.

Rayleigh was the last one through the door.

He leaned against the frame like he wasn’t entirely sure it was real. His shirt was soaked through with blood, half of it his, the rest probably someone else’s. He had a deep cut along his ribs, a fading bruise across his jaw, and the same calm expression he always wore. Like none of this was urgent, like pain had agreed to wait until he was done with whatever he had to finish.

You cursed under your breath and caught him just before he slumped to the floor.

It took effort to drag him across the threshold. He didn’t resist, only blinked at you through the haze, unfocused and slow. You dropped him onto a pile of laundry that hadn’t made it to the basin yet and crouched beside him, already reaching for clean bandages and your strongest antiseptic.

The steam from the broth curled in the air between you. Rayleigh turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded, and looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“My sea-blessed angel,” he whispered, voice warm and wrecked. Then his eyes rolled back, and he passed out in your laundry like he had just found heaven.

You sat back on your heels and stared at him.

And then, instead of shoving him outside or pouring cold water over his head, you exhaled slowly, pressed a hand to your temple, and muttered a curse you hadn’t used in years.

You didn’t kick him out. You didn’t even try.

That, as you would later learn, was your second mistake.

He woke the next morning to the scent of citrus soap and the low clatter of pans from the front of the stall. The light filtering through the warped wooden slats was soft and golden, catching on the fresh bandage wrapped snug across his shoulder.

Then your foot nudged his ribs.

He blinked up at you, still groggy with sleep and blood loss, and watched as you dropped a hunk of bread into his hands without ceremony.

“Eat,” you said, voice flat. You looked like you hadn’t slept, hair tied up, sleeves rolled, apron already stained from a morning’s worth of effort. You didn’t wait for a response, just turned and walked away.

Took his time, too, like the food owed him something personal.

Then he wiped his mouth, looked up at you with that smug, sea-worn grin, and said:

“So, you spoken for or did I show up right on schedule?”

That smile did something awful to your spine. You felt it crack straight through your resolve like pressure on thin ice. You cursed yourself, turned away, and made the mistake of speaking.

“I’m not interested in pirates.”

Rayleigh didn’t miss a beat. “Liar.”

You scowled. “I like smart men.”

He took another bite and shrugged lazily. “Darling, I’m the reason maps have warnings.”

You hated how that made you pause. Hated that your heart skipped, just once. He wasn’t even trying, and he still knocked the wind out of you with a single sentence and that half-lidded grin.

He was the worst kind of man: sun-gold and storm-silver, sharp-eyed and slow-moving, like the floorboards were lucky to have him. He didn’t walk so much as saunter. Leaned on doorframes like they owed him rent. Stared at you like he was letting you in on a secret just by breathing in your direction.

He didn’t talk often, but when he did, it was in that velvet-wrapped drawl, the kind of voice that made you want to spill a drink just to shut it up. Or maybe to hear more.

Once, he passed behind you to reach for the spice rack. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t touch you.

But you felt him.

The shift of air. The warmth of his arm just behind yours. The slow certainty of someone who knew exactly how close he could get without crossing a line. You burned the rice, and then glared at the scorched bottom of the pan like it had personally betrayed you.

Later, he called you “sweetheart” in passing, his voice soft and wicked, as if he were whispering something.

Your knees betrayed you. They actually did the thing.

You told yourself it was just the voice. Just the swagger. Just the smell of rum and sea wind and the kind of bad decisions that involved midnight walks, stolen kisses, and regrettable mornings.

You weren’t going to fall for him.

You weren’t.

You may have admitted, once, very privately, that you might sit on his lap. Hypothetically. For scientific reasons. But only with limits.

And then, that afternoon, he walked by shirtless again.

You dropped your knife, cursed under your breath, and seriously considered throwing the entire stove into the harbor.

He glanced over his shoulder and smiled.

Of course he did.

Roger just wanted to eat.

That was it. That was the whole goal.

A good, solid cook. Someone who wouldn’t poison the crew. At least not on purpose. Someone who understood the difference between salt and sugar, unlike Buggy, whose last attempt at stew had turned into a war crime in liquid form. Someone who wouldn’t serve the same bizarre, spotted fish four days in a row and claim it was gourmet just because it “tasted fine grilled,” as Shanks so valiantly insisted.

Someone like you.

He showed up one morning grinning like the sun was in on his joke, boots loud on the planks, hands on his hips in that ridiculous Captain Pose you’d come to associate with either disaster or persuasion. Or both.

“Join the crew,” he said, beaming. “We’ll give you treasure. Fame. A room with a locking door so men stop trying to sneak into your hammock.”

Rayleigh, standing just behind him, immediately turned away and pretended to be highly interested in a barrel. He wasn’t subtle about it. In fact, he somehow managed to radiate guilt without changing expression, posture, or tone.

You looked between the two of them.

Then narrowed your eyes.

“I already told you,” you said, wiping your hands on a dishcloth and leveling a flat look at Roger. “I’m not a pirate.”

Roger opened his mouth.

You cut him off with a raised finger. “And before you say whatever reckless, golden-hearted nonsense you’ve got chambered in there, let me clarify. I cook. I keep my head down. I like quiet. And I don’t want to be kidnapped by lunatics who chase sea kings for fun, and apparently, how to bandage a wound without using someone’s shirt.”

“That was one time,” Shanks mumbled behind him.

“Twice,” you corrected without looking. “You used Buggy’s cape the second time.”

Buggy’s voice shrieked from offscreen. “You said you liked that cape!”

“I lied.”

Roger laughed as if it were the best day of his life. “You’d fit right in!”

You stared at Roger for a long, unimpressed moment. He didn’t flinch. Just kept smiling like the sheer force of his enthusiasm might eventually wear you down.

It wouldn’t.

Probably.

And yet, somewhere in the quieter part of your brain, your eyes had already flicked toward the spice rack. Just once. Just long enough to wonder if it would travel well. Most of the jars were sealed tightly, but the cinnamon always leaked. You could fix that. Maybe.

“You’re worse than a pirate,” Scopper muttered around a mouthful, clutching one of your fried rice balls with both hands like it was sacred. “You made food taste like feelings. I cried twice.”

“That sounds like a personal problem,” you replied, folding your arms.

Scopper took another bite and muttered something reverent under his breath.

From the corner of the stall, Shanks chimed in through a mouthful of dumplings. “But what if we make it your problem? Like, permanently?”

You turned your glare on him, slow and deliberate.

He blinked, swallowed, and offered a grin so wide it was nearly apologetic. Nearly.

You didn’t answer right away. Just wiped your hands on your apron and looked at the half-devoured chaos of your lunch service, the ridiculous crew sitting elbow-to-elbow at your counter like they’d always belonged there.

You should have said no again.

Should have kicked them all out and barred the door.

Instead, you reached behind you and adjusted the spice rack. Just a little. Just in case.

After that, the crew continued to come back. Not every day. Not with announcements or fanfare. Just every so often, like a tide returning in its own time. Sometimes it was Roger, booming with laughter and trying to barter sea stories for seconds. Sometimes it was Shanks and Buggy, bickering their way through your lunch line. Sometimes it was Scopper, grumbling about something you had no context for while devouring half your stock.

But more often than not, it was Rayleigh.

He never said much. Just showed up near closing, pulled up a stool at the far edge of your stall, and sat there. Quiet as sea mist. He’d watch the wind for a while, gaze trailing out over the harbor like he was tracking something far beyond it. Then, eventually, his eyes would drift back to you.

He never asked for anything.

Sometimes he cleaned. Silently wiped down tables, stacked bowls, and swept where you couldn’t reach. Once, when your hands were trembling from exhaustion, he took the knife from you with a touch so light it didn’t feel real, and chopped the vegetables without a word.

He even took over the stove once, when you were too tired to argue. He’d watched you enough times to know the basics. Or so you thought.

He burned a rice ball so thoroughly that it resembled a fossil.

You raised an eyebrow. He stared at the blackened husk in his hand for a long moment, then turned and bowed his head in shame like he had dishonored the gods themselves.

The laugh that escaped you was loud, sharp, and completely unguarded.

It startled even you.

Rayleigh looked up as if that sound had broken something open inside him. He didn’t smile, not quite, but there was a shift. A softening in the lines around his eyes, a flicker of something quieter than joy but deeper than amusement.

From that day forward, he never tried to cook again. But he stayed longer.

That was how it was with Rayleigh. No declarations. No promises. Just presence.

And maybe a little jealousy.

It wasn’t intentional. You hadn’t flirted. The merchant had only winked. Just a passing compliment about your hands while paying for lunch, something about how they looked too soft for kitchen work.

Rayleigh hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t interrupted.

He had simply appeared behind the man. Silent. Solid. Eyes unreadable.

The merchant took one look at him, went pale, stuttered something incoherent, and practically sprinted down the dock like he’d seen a ghost in broad daylight.

You turned, arms crossed, and narrowed your eyes at Rayleigh.

“Was that necessary?”

He tilted his head, utterly calm. “They’re mine.”

There was a beat of silence.

“…My hands?”

He didn’t clarify.

He just turned away, reached for a rag, and began wiping down the counter like he hadn’t just claimed ownership of your limbs and scared a grown man out of his shoes.

You stood there, staring at his back, half-annoyed and half-flushed, and realized with quiet horror that you didn’t mind it nearly as much as you should have.

One morning, you decided to wear one of your favorite shirts.

It wasn’t a statement. Not a plan. Just a choice made halfway through wiping your forehead on your sleeve for the third time before noon. The kitchen was sweltering, the stove was relentless, and your usual apron felt like a wool blanket soaked in steam. So you reached for something lighter. Breezier. A sleeveless, low-cut shirt that clung in all the places heat liked to settle. It wasn’t scandalous. Just comfortable. Practical. Your own little mercy.

Rayleigh did not handle it well.

He bumped into three walls before noon. Missed a step on the stairs and nearly took out a barrel. Forgot how to ask for tea halfway through the sentence and had to restart twice. At one point, he turned to say something, looked directly at your chest, and went completely silent.

Ten full seconds passed.

Then he blinked. His eyes darted away like he’d been caught in a crime scene photo. And then, without meeting your gaze, he mumbled a soft, “Apologies, love,” to your sternum like it was a sentient creature he had just deeply offended.

You stared at him in disbelief.

Then you handed him a drink to shut him up.

He took it gingerly, fingers brushing yours, and stared down at the cup in his hands like it was something sacred. Something far more than citrus and ice. As if you’d just proposed. Or wrote him poetry. Or handed him a deed to a quiet little cottage on the sea.

All because you wore a shirt.

You told yourself not to read into it. Not to linger on the way his hands tightened just slightly around the glass. Not to notice the way he hovered near the stove that day, silent and watchful, like he couldn’t decide if you were real or dangerous.

You told yourself it was just the heat.

But he never took his eyes off you for long.

Even when he tried to be subtle, even when he turned his back, you could feel it. The quiet awareness, the magnetic pull of his gaze like a tide tugging at your ankles. And he bumped into one more wall before dinner. Didn’t even try to explain it.

You figured the two of you could use a little breathing room. If a glimpse of cleavage was enough to compromise the composure of one of the most infamous pirates on the sea, perhaps some temporary distance would help recalibrate whatever strange, unspoken thing was blooming between you.

You weren’t even gone.

Just slipped into the next market stall over for half an hour to help a friend clean and season a fresh catch. It wasn’t anything dramatic. You were still within shouting distance, still in view if someone had bothered to lean out far enough.

And yet, when you stepped back into the main thoroughfare, Rayleigh looked like a man who had survived three wars, a personal betrayal, and seven days of nothing but hardtack and spiritual erosion.

He turned toward you with a sharp breath, shirt halfway unbuttoned, hair a wreck from where he’d raked his fingers through it too many times, pupils wide like he’d seen God and she had refused to season anything.

“Where were you?” he asked hoarsely, like he hadn’t been sure you’d ever return.

You blinked. “Helping a friend. Living a normal life. Cooking, once again.”

Rayleigh exhaled so hard his shoulders dropped. He looked genuinely relieved.

“Thank the stars,” he muttered. “I almost had to eat something Buggy cooked.”

From somewhere across the deck, Buggy screamed, “IT WAS JUST SPAGHETTI!”

“IT WAS SWEET,” Shanks hissed, clinging to the hem of your apron like a starving child. “LIKE. ACTUAL. DESSERT. SPAGHETTI.”

You didn’t ask for clarification. You didn’t want it. The horror in Shanks’ eyes told you everything you needed to know.

Later that night, just after the lanterns had been dimmed and the waves had quieted into their usual lull, Rayleigh knocked on your doorframe. He leaned against it like he wasn’t entirely sure how to stand anymore.

His shirt was still open. His hair was still a mess. He looked like he’d been dragged backward through a wind tunnel of domestic chaos and existential dread.

“I will literally wash every dish on the Oro Jackson with my tongue if you join.”

You stared at him.

He blinked. “Okay. Maybe not with my tongue. That’s… not sanitary. But—look.”

He stepped into the light, looking tired and profoundly sincere.

“They’re trying to replace you with me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And how’d that go?”

He held up a scorched pan with both hands, as if it were damning evidence. Something black and grainy clung to the inside like the remains of a failed summoning circle.

“We had to bury it,” Rayleigh said again, holding the scorched pan like it was a war memorial. His voice was grim. Quiet. The kind of solemn usually reserved for funerals or broken swords.

Before you could respond, Roger appeared beside him like a human avalanche of good intentions and poor impulse control.

He was holding three things.

A friendship bracelet, frayed and crooked, made of mismatched string and probably tears.

A crew application form that looked suspiciously hand-drawn and entirely unofficial, signed by what appeared to be half the ship in various levels of spelling competency.

And a crayon portrait, bright, clumsy, and endearingly awful, labeled in oversized lettering: Best Cook Ever (pls don’t leave us).

Rayleigh stood beside him, arms crossed, still shirtless, radiating dignity as if this entire scene wasn’t unfolding next to a glitter-glued drawing of you holding a spoon.

“If you don’t join,” he said, voice flat and heavy, “I will die.”

You stared.

“Possibly dramatically,” he added. “Possibly on purpose.”

You squinted at him. “You’ve survived the Grand Line. Sea Kings. God Valley. An actual volcano.”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “But not without your cooking.”

You frowned. “That’s not a compliment.”

Rayleigh tilted his head, that slow smirk just beginning to curl at the corner of his mouth. “It’s a threat.”

There was a beat of silence.

You blinked.

He smiled.

Somewhere behind you, Shanks tripped over a mop bucket while trying to rewrite the last line of the crew song to include your name.

You exhaled slowly. Not quite a groan. Not quite a sigh. Something between surrender and acceptance.

Because this wasn’t a crew.

It was a goddamn circus.

And somehow, without your permission, they’d made you the main act.

You sighed. “I’ll think about it. Maybe.”

Rayleigh’s grin nearly split his face. Roger threw the bracelet like confetti.

Technically, you said maybe to joining them.

Not yes. Not yet. Not even close.

Just a vague, tired murmur at the end of a long day, muttered more out of exhaustion than intent. You’d been wiping down the stall when Roger caught you off guard, elbow propped on your counter, voice soft and far too hopeful for a man wanted on every sea.

Maybe, you said. Perhaps you’d think about it. Maybe you’d consider sailing with them. Maybe you’d figure it out tomorrow, after a night of sleep and some time to weigh what it would mean to leave behind the one small corner of peace you’d built for yourself.

You had meant to take your time.

They didn’t wait.

They took your maybe as a yes, a declaration, a done deal.

And so you woke the next morning not in your cot. Not in your stall. Not to the familiar creak of the shutters or the hiss of your stove warming up.

You woke up on a ship.

Their ship.

The Oro Jackson.

You sat up slowly, blinking in disbelief, surrounded by the unmistakable scent of sea air and aged timber. The room swayed gently beneath you, hammocks creaked somewhere nearby, and seagulls cried in the distance.

There were sacks of flour stacked neatly near the wall. Your spice rack had been bolted to a shelf with what looked like hand-carved brackets. Your knives were lined up in a row, gleaming and familiar. And your best apron (washed, pressed, and folded) sat neatly beside a tin of your favorite tea leaves, tucked into the corner like a quiet apology.

Someone had even left you a cup of warm sake.

When you stormed above deck to confront Roger, he greeted you with a wave and a grin like this was all perfectly reasonable.

“You belong with us,” he called, as if that explained everything.

You stared at him, stunned. Furious. Confused.

He beamed harder.

And when you turned, slowly, toward Rayleigh, your breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t grin. He didn’t speak.

He just looked at you.

Softly. Steadily. Like you were already home. Like this had always been the end of the road, and all your resistance had been nothing more than a scenic detour.

You should have yelled. Should have demanded they turn the ship around, dock immediately, carry every damn sack of flour back to your stall by hand.

But instead, you stood there in the morning light, the wind pulling gently at your shirt, and didn’t say a word.

And, well… they had brought your knives.

They had packed your spices, folded your apron. Tucked your good ladle into your satchel like it might be needed on the road. You’d told yourself it was practical. A precaution. A habit.

But maybe it had been hope.

Maybe it had been instinct.

Or maybe it had always been him.

Roger stood at the helm, one hand on the wheel, grinning like a man who had just won a game no one else knew was being played. He waved when he saw you on deck, beaming, as if you hadn’t just woken up to find your entire life shifted under your feet.

And Rayleigh?

He was already watching.

Leaning against the mast with a calm that didn’t quite reach his eyes, arms at his sides, shirt half-unbuttoned from the morning sun. He didn’t smile. Didn’t move. Just stood there, quiet and waiting, gaze steady and unreadable.

Like he’d been waiting for you to open your eyes and finally see the truth that had always been there. Not a choice, not a trick. Just something old and simple. Something that fits.

Slow. Certain. Already home.

You stared back.

And you didn’t say no.

Because, if you were honest… The decision had already been made the moment you looked up and saw him in your kitchen, eating your food like it meant something.

Maybe it wasn’t a kidnapping.

Not really.

Maybe it was fate.

Or, worse.

Maybe it was Rayleigh.

That smug, maddening bastard with a voice like honey and a smirk that promised back pain, bad decisions, and a long, glittering trail of beautiful regrets. The kind of man who didn’t steal hearts so much as unlace them slowly, carefully, with velvet hands and wandering eyes. Then pretended he hadn’t done a thing.

The kind of man who made surrender feel like your idea.

So you did the only thing you knew how to do.

You turned on your heel, marched into the kitchen, and started to cook.

Your hands found rhythm in the familiar: chopping, stirring, seasoning. The motions were grounding, automatic, built into your bones. The scent of simmering broth rose around you, thick with spices and something a little like pride.

Rayleigh was nearby.

Suspiciously still.

Too still.

You heard him sigh behind you. Deep. Long. Heavy with something that was definitely not culinary despair.

Then silence again.

And then, another look. You could feel it, that slow, deliberate glance.

Because he was middle-aged, not dead.

You tried to ignore him. Truly, you did. Focused on the stew, the pot, the way the spices bloomed in the heat. But Rayleigh was still standing there. Quiet. Too quiet.

That was never a good sign.

When Rayleigh was that still, it meant one of three things: he was calculating, remembering, or fantasizing. Possibly all three.

You glanced over your shoulder.

He wasn’t moving. Just watching you, arms folded across his chest, one brow slightly drawn like he was thinking very hard about something he shouldn’t be thinking about in the galley.

Your ladle slowed in the pot.

His eyes didn’t leave you.

Neither of you spoke.

And beneath all of it—the soft hiss of the stove, the gentle creak of the ship, the low, steady bubbling of the broth—there was heat that had nothing to do with fire.

You recognized that look.

It wasn’t curiosity. It wasn’t idle thought.

Rayleigh wasn’t thinking about navigation. He wasn’t calculating coordinates or weather patterns or where they’d be by sunrise.

He didn’t blink.

His jaw tensed, ever so slightly.

And just like that, you knew: he was losing the battle with his imagination.

You let the silence stretch, then glanced over your shoulder with one brow raised, ladle paused mid-stir.

“Rayleigh?”

He snapped out of it fast. Too fast.

Looked startled. Looked guilty. Shrugged like the answer didn’t matter, like he hadn’t just mentally undressed you six different ways and married the idea for good measure.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the pot.

Kept stirring.

And the next morning, your name was on the crew ledger.

Scrawled in someone’s best attempt at fancy handwriting, ink still drying, written directly beneath the official line for the quartermaster.

It read: Ship’s Goddess, Culinary Class. DO NOT ANGER HER.

Right where Rayleigh insisted it belonged.

Roger claimed it was a joke. Shanks swore it was a sign of respect. Buggy tried to add “Also immune to mutiny laws” until you threatened to feed him to a sea king with one hand tied behind your back.

But the truth was more straightforward. You cooked.

Not just food. Real food. Edible. Hot. Properly seasoned. Something with texture and flavor and love in it, even if you’d denied the last part.

You had made the stew.

And nobody cried. Well, Buggy cried a little, but that was more from emotion than spice.

You didn’t flinch when Gaban called you sugarcakes for the third time in a row. You didn’t bat an eye when Roger stole the entire tray of dumplings, shouted about divine revelation, and proposed to your curry. You just cooked, sighed, and kept moving, the same way you always had.

And for Roger, that was it. That was the win. The victory. The final proof that bringing you aboard had been the right call.

Until he looked up mid-meal and saw Rayleigh staring at your chest like it held the coordinates to Laugh Tale.

Not subtly.

Not briefly.

Roger dropped his spoon.

Rayleigh didn’t even notice.

He just kept looking, like your neckline was whispering secrets, like your collarbone had started a treasure hunt, and he was already halfway to drawing the map.

Roger cleared his throat. Loudly.

Rayleigh didn’t blink.

Shanks leaned in and whispered, “Should we… stop him?”

Roger just sighed, long and defeated. “He’s too far gone.”

And you?

You kept ladling soup.

Because someone had to.

It started with a look.

You were reaching for a spice jar. Nothing scandalous. Nothing theatrical. Just stretching toward the top shelf like any normal person trying to make dinner on a ship full of unsupervised pirates.

Your shirt rode up slightly.

Rayleigh choked on air.

You turned, jar in hand, eyebrows raised. “Are you dying, or just perving?”

He coughed once. Tried to recover. Failed. “Both,” he rasped. “Respectfully.”

You stared. Rayleigh looked away, as if the basil had personally betrayed him.

Rayleigh, for all his composure, had a mental list.

Not a vague idea.

Not a loose collection of thoughts.

A list.

Cataloged. Prioritized. Updated nightly.

If she trips and falls into my arms, marry her.

If she kisses me over soup, retire immediately.

If she moans while taste-testing: abandon all morals, sail directly into temptation.

If Gaban flirts again: duel to the death, consequences be damned.

He also had a backup hammock built.

You’d never seen it.

No one had.

It lived somewhere deep in the storage hold, hidden behind barrels of rum and denial. Carefully tied. Weatherproofed. Reinforced.

He called it The Matrimonial Option.

He’d told Roger once, offhandedly, during a storm.

“I’m not a complicated man,” he’d said. “I just need her, a skillet, and one flat surface big enough to build a life on.”

Roger had taken a long sip of his drink.

Then muttered, “Shouldn’t you be going a little slower?” before walking into the rain.

Rayleigh hadn’t answered.

He was too busy carving your initials into the frame of the spare hammock.

Captain’s Log: Subject: First Mate is Down Cataclysmically

Symptoms include:

– Eye contact paralysis

– Selective hearing when boobs are present

– Full-body flinch response every time she says his name in that sweet voice

– Butter knife threats at Gaban levels of violence

Roger stared down at the page, then slammed the logbook shut like it had personally insulted his leadership.

“This is stupid,” he muttered.

Gaban leaned back in his chair, arms folded, sipping something with far too much rum and even more judgment. “He’s in love,” he said, entirely too smug.

“He’s in lust,” Roger shot back.

Behind them, footsteps echoed across the deck. Rayleigh passed by in a loose shirt and sharper frown, one hand outstretched to shield your body from a gust of sea wind like it might bruise you. He didn’t even break stride.

Roger watched him go, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “See? That. That right there.”

Gaban raised his drink. “Still in love.”

Roger shook his head. “He’s just in it for the boobs.”

There was a pause.

Gaban tilted his head thoughtfully. “I mean… they are pretty nice boobs.”

Roger hesitated. “Yeah. They are.”

Both men nodded, solemn.

“But someone’s gotta tell him to stop staring,” Roger said after a beat.

Gaban took another sip. “You.”

“No, you.”

“Not a chance. He’s been sharpening that cutlass.”

Roger stared at him.

Gaban shrugged again. “I like my limbs.”

There was another silence.

From across the deck, Rayleigh paused mid-step and glanced over at you again. The same look. Soft. Starstruck. Catastrophically doomed.

Roger sighed so hard it became a prayer.

Rayleigh was doing his best not to be a lech. Women didn’t like that, so it was of the utmost importance that he showcased his other skills to entice a mate.

Truly. With every ounce of discipline honed over decades at sea, he was trying.

And you were talking about something important, probably even urgent. But he couldn’t focus. Not when your shirt had all the structural integrity of a loose sail in a storm. 

Who designed that thing? Was it legal? Was it certified to be worn in the presence of emotionally compromised first mates?

He rubbed the bridge of his nose like he could massage the filth out of his brain.

It didn’t work.

You leaned forward.

The neckline shifted.

He looked away so fast that his chair tilted. One leg lifted off the floor before he righted it with a grunt, fingers tightening on the armrests like he was bracing for impact.

You, oblivious or not, continued. You were holding a map, damn it. A map. Pointing to wind currents and pressure zones, and how the Grand Line bent physics over a table and made it beg.

And he was staring at the topographical miracle of your chest.

Not even intentionally. That was the worst part.

It just… pulled his eyes. Like gravity. Or divine punishment. He tried to focus on the latitude line. He really did.

But all his brain could think was: Those aren’t just mountains on the map.

He coughed violently, trying to cover the sound of his soul short-circuiting.

You paused mid-sentence.

And caught him.

You didn’t say anything.

You just looked at him. One brow lifted, hand on your hip, the other still holding the map like it was a fan in a play, and you were definitely using it as a weapon now. A prop. A trap.

Rayleigh stared at the ceiling. Then the floor. Then closed his eyes like a condemned man making peace with the gallows.

“Sweetheart,” he said slowly, voice low and rough, scraped raw from the weight of restraint, “I have fought emperors. I have out-drunk fleets. I have escaped execution naked and barefoot in the snow.”

He opened his eyes.

“But if you don’t put a different shirt on, I am going to sin so profoundly the sea will split down the middle just to avoid watching.”

You smiled.

Didn’t move.

You were doing it on purpose.

Absolute menace.

It didn’t take long for word to spread across the Grand Line.

You had legendary tits and could make a stew that made hardened pirates weep like children.

Naturally, this was a problem.

Not for you, of course. You were fine. Thriving, even. But for everyone else—specifically, anyone with the misfortune of standing too close, staring too long, or daring to compliment the way you stirred a pot—life had become significantly more dangerous.

Because Rayleigh had entered what the crew was now referring to, in hushed tones, as feral husband mode.

It had started subtly.

A glance here. A hand resting at the small of your back when another captain passed a little too slowly. A smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes when a merchant offered you a “free sample.”

But subtle didn’t last.

Not when he realized other men were looking at you the same way he looked at dessert, like you were a rare indulgence, warm and soft and just waiting to be devoured.

One poor bastard in Water 7 asked for your recipe and your measurements in the same sentence.

Rayleigh didn’t speak.

He just handed the man a spoon.

Then took it back.

And bent it in half.

With one hand.

You hadn’t even noticed the offense. You were too busy yelling at Shanks for stealing dumplings again.

But Rayleigh?

Rayleigh was watching the world like a man prepared to kill for love and soup in equal measure.

And heaven help whoever thought they could separate the two.

Exhibit A: Buggy

“Wow,” Buggy said brightly, leaning across the table with the most respectful expression his face could manage, “you’ve got a great—”

Clink.

Rayleigh didn’t even look up from his map. He simply reached out and placed his sword on the table. Calm. Precise. A gentle tap of steel against wood. The kind of motion that didn’t scream threat so much as whisper it with murderous confidence.

Buggy froze mid-sentence.

“…smile,” he finished weakly.

Rayleigh raised one eyebrow. Slowly. Deliberately.

Buggy backed away with the careful movements of a man realizing he had just complimented the moon in front of a werewolf. And the werewolf was holding a blade.

Exhibit B: Gaban (Again)

“I’m just saying,” Gaban mused, leaning lazily against the ship’s railing as you bent over a basket of spices nearby, “if she wanted to lean over me like that in the kitchen, I wouldn’t mind.”

He grinned to himself. It was a very self-satisfied kind of grin.

Rayleigh appeared behind him like a spirit summoned by lust and poor timing.

“Funny,” he said, tone pleasant, almost conversational. “I was just thinking you looked flammable today.”

Gaban turned.

Saw the look in Rayleigh’s eyes.

And promptly excused himself to go fall off the ship on purpose.

Exhibit C: A Bounty Hunter Who Looked for Too Long

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t whistle. Didn’t catcall. Didn’t utter a word.

He just stared. A little too long. A little too low. While you were hauling in a crate, bouncing slightly from the effort, sleeves rolled up, neck glistening with sweat and sea spray.

Rayleigh didn’t make a sound.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t warn.

He just picked the man up and dropped him into the ocean like a sack of potatoes that had committed a felony.

Splash.

Roger leaned over the railing, tankard in hand, and shouted cheerfully, “She’s taken, mate!”

Rayleigh didn’t look away from the water. “She’s mi—ours.”

You, five feet away, still holding the crate: “I’m literally right here. Do I get a vote?”

Rayleigh: “No.”

You: “Rude.”

Rayleigh: “Correct.”

And then he handed you a clean rag for the sweat on your brow, kissed your cheek like a man unbothered by legal definitions of ownership, and went right back to charting a course like he hadn’t just waterboarded a stranger with possessiveness.

The Grand Line got the message.

[vancodependent]

I might get dogpiled for this but I have this particular view of Silco that I must share: I think he is fundamentally a pathetic person. I am a certified Silco lover, and this quality of his is actually central to my affection for him, and in this essay I will explain why:

Silco is a twisted and warped person because of a lifetime of abandonment and cruelty. We know that before the bridge, he was already relatively closed off with an acerbic, sarcastic sense of humor. We know that when Vander tried to kill him, a mad scientist at the fringes of society was the one who saved him from dying of infection, most likely through a series of painful experiments. When we saw him in the cannery, his only allies were aforementioned mad scientist and the chembarons that he openly loathed.

All of this to say, we never saw Silco with a genuine friend other than Vander and Felicia. If he had other family or friends at one point, they all abandoned him after the man he called his brother tried to kill him. Can you imagine how he felt, early on after that happened? The only person he’d ever really trusted left him permanently disfigured. And then that person dismantled and crushed every inch of progress Silco had made towards his lifelong dream, Zaun. And THEN this person was embraced by and treated as a beloved pillar of the community for his efforts. Silco could not have been rejected by society in a more literal or total way. The damage that this did to his sense of self worth and trust in others was irreversible.

Sevika was loyal to his cause, and I think there was genuine respect and admiration between them, but it was a business relationship. At that point in his life, I think he was already too emotionally stunted to form any kind of real attachment to another adult.

What we see with Jinx is that he desperately craved a family but was unable to create a healthy one. He absolutely loved Jinx, but he was far too traumatized to effectively parent her. I personally disagree with the characterization of Silco as a cold manipulator that saw Jinx as a weapon, because in his lived experience it was completely rational to assume that no one was trustworthy and everyone would abandon her. The parallel to his falling out with Vander when Vi yelled at her for throwing the hex crystal could not be more on the nose. 

Silco had a tendency to re-open his old wounds again and again until they were so scarred over that he could tell himself nothing hurt anymore. That worked for him because he’d never had anyone he could trust, but it splintered Jinx’s reality because she did grow up with people who loved her. The paranoia that drove her insane was actually pretty sane for his worldview.

Silco, to be clear, absolutely did evil things. He mutated and tortured Deckard, a child who was probably just another undercity castoff (and that in particular kills me, because I think he re-enacted some of his own traumas on Deckard). He also pumped shimmer into the streets of his own community to accelerate his revolutionary plans. He even told a grieving mother that he would have had her child killed in retaliation for her actions. And although he grew to love Jinx, he could only understand her insofar as he saw a mirror of himself. 

Ultimately, he was capable of compartmentalizing the suffering that he caused because he believed it was for the greater good of his nation. There’s a streak of narcissism in that logic; he felt he had the right to sacrifice his own people for his ideals, and he didn’t care if they believed in his mission or not. In fact, he knew in no uncertain terms that the community whose independence he was fighting for by and large did not think that his cause was worth the price he forced them to pay. That makes his actions paternalistic at best, and retributive at worst. Of course, he would never say that he wanted to punish his community for what they did to him, but I think it leaked out subconsciously through his actions.

But what makes him pathetic and not just evil is that underneath those twisted, gnarled feelings, was a broken man who just wanted to be accepted. When Vander tried to kill him and the community rallied behind him, Silco could have easily written the Undercity off as a whole. It would have been much easier for him to join the chembarons in enriching himself with no regard for the people who left him for dead. And if all he wanted was to get back at Piltover, there were much more direct ways to do that as well. But there was something inside of him that refused to give up on Zaun.

Silco’s emotional maturity is stunted, but he has an inherent sense of justice, and I respect him for that because the world did its damndest to beat it out of him. Beyond that, his loyalty to the cause of Zaun speaks to a deep desire to be re-welcomed into his community. He really is the perfect example of the old saying, a child who is cast out from his village will burn it down to feel its warmth.

Something that Arcane really beats us over the head with is that morally grey people with the best of intentions can cause unspeakable evil. Silco is very much a product of his circumstances, and while that doesn’t excuse his actions, it does make him deeply human.

[purplesuni]

I’ve been hearing from a lot of places that people who disliked season 3 “don’t understand” that the show is an allegory or that they are “media illiterate”. The specific viewpoint I am talking about here in this post is going to be that “because the show is an allegory, the characters aren’t meant to be developed as much and western audiences don’t understand that.” I strongly disagree in the context of squid game. I have a video I watched saying this if anyone needs the link lemme know, its why I made this post.

Its a genuine point you can make about the show that every character represents a potential type of person in Korea. Gi-hun is a divorced gambler. Sang-woo went to SNU yet has a lot of debt. The codependent mother and son. Hyun-ju is transgender. Sae-byeok and No-eul are both from North Korea and in debt trying to save their loved ones. In-ho was an ex-police officer. I could name more, but the reasons all these people got involved in the games was because of their debt. I won’t dispute the value these traits bring to the overall allegory, of course not! It is very true that the reason different types of people were included is to shed light on the debt issues of Korean people. It’s extremely valuable that different kinds of people are included in the story, and therefore how different types of people in Korea are affected by capitalism. That is the allegory. A major part of it.

BUT, in my opinion, not at all a valid reason to say “oh that’s why things weren’t explained in season 3, that’s why many characters feel flat!”. Like yes Gi-hun was and is a gambler, yeah Hyun-ju is trans, yes the mother and the son are codependent, etc but the director CLEARLYYY wrote them as more than just that! Gi-hun shows change and regret. Hyunju is caring and loyal. Ali is very kind, likes movies, and is a very trusting person. None of their personality traits are stereotypes, they are all different!

They all have the same thing in common, they were or are in debt thats true. But not explaining crucial plot points and leaving major character arcs unresloved/ruined shouldn’t be given the excuse of being for the “allegory”, because why would you make the characters nuanced in the first place? If not to show that everyone is a human and a victim of the games?? Even In-ho, who is the Front Man, has an arc that feels like it should have lead somewhere. It can be inferred that he misses his wife and brother. He still shows human emotions! So why, for what reason, were all of these people built up this way? They don’t seem like caricatures to me.

Making everyone a flat character was not hdhs intention clearly in season 2, and I’m honestly done defending the butchered character arcs with the excuse of allegory. At this point, this makes me feel like people think he should never have given someone like In-ho any character development at all. And I’m sure he did consider it looking at how season 3 turned out.

Let’s take at a famous piece of media that is an obvious allegory, Animal Farm. I feel like the characters in that were much more flat and unexplored, compared to squid game. And it did work! But you have to remember squid game was never really like that. Consistency matters.

Tbh, if what they wanted was to show the doomed system of capitalism and its effect on lots of indebted people in Korea, using flat “caricatures” wouldn’t have even worked imo. After all you need to remember the show is an allegory for capitalism and explores the possibilities of human nature, aka, also how HUMANS built up capitalism and everyone who is affected by it is human.

Most squid game characters are not flat. They aren’t really stereotypes, and their arcs should have been respected, including, especially In-ho’s and Gi-hun’s. And yeah man some characters were less developed and left as symbols, or even just another example of a person, but that’s okay too?? Yeah the baby is a sign of hope and doesn’t have a personality yet and shaman Seon-nyeo does not change much, but thats totally fine to have in the show too besides the main characters! It’s actually good to have that!

However no answers does not equal a good allegory that “keeps you thinking”! And yes media with allegory can have developed characters!

Justice for Gi-hun and In-ho’s moral battle that was basically forgotten in season 3 🥀

Also, side note people can understand the symbolism in media and still be critical of it. Like yes we understood the meaning but we also deserved consistency and answers, having an opinion is okay. Please don’t misinterpret this post as hating you if you liked season 3. I just wanted to share what I think. Here on tumblr from what I have seen everybody is really respectful and understanding though! 🩷🩷

[wishingonjellyfish]

unseen

I was looked at but I wasn’t seen

Sevika’s spent her whole life pretending with everyone—always keeping her mask up, holding up the façade, never letting her tough exterior slip. With everyone around her, it’s always the same act. She’s never more than a pawn in someone else’s game.

But one day, you’re cuddling with her, pressed against her chest while she holds you tightly, and she tells you how she’s not used to being vulnerable with someone. How you have this ability to see right through her, down to her very core. She doesn’t understand why you’re so accepting and understanding—it infuriates her.

And that’s when you lift your head from her chest, your hand coming up to her cheek to stroke her skin softly as you look her dead in the eye.

“I’m sorry you met people who weren’t understanding or accepting of your soft side, that you think you have to be tough to survive. But you don’t have to pretend around me. You will never disappoint me, Sevika,” you tell her, your voice soft but laced with a hint of seriousness.

Your words hit her like a punch to the gut, her heart clenching at the gentleness in your voice. She’s so used to putting up walls, hiding her softer side, pretending to be tough just to survive. But here you are, telling her she doesn’t need to pretend—that she can just be herself.

“You’re gonna break me if you keep talking like that,” she mutters, her voice choked with raw emotion.

“If you break,” you reply gently, “I’ll help you put all the pieces back together.”

Sevika sucks in a ragged breath, your words stirring something deep within her. The thought of being allowed to break, to let her guard down, to be vulnerable and still be cared for—it both terrifies and excites her.

She’s not used to someone wanting to help her patch up her broken pieces.

“You’re too good to me,” she whispers hoarsely. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You don’t have to prove yourself to be worthy of love. Just being you makes you worthy enough.”

Your words send a bolt of emotion through her. She’s spent her entire life trying to prove her worth, to earn the respect and approval of others. But the way you effortlessly tell her she doesn’t have to prove anything—that she’s already worthy of love—makes her feel like she’s about to come undone.

“How are you even real?” she whispers. “You’re too good to be true.”

“You can’t put people on pedestals,” you tell her softly. “I’m no greater than you are. We may be different, but at our core, we’re both human—and that makes us equal. Nobody is perfect, Sevika. And you will never be ���too much’ for the right person."

you pause and then speak again

“For me, Sevi… you’re not too much or too little. You’re just enough—exactly how you are. You being you is enough. It will always be enough. And the right person will accept that. I promise you that.”

Sevika’s breath hitches as your words sink in, her heart swelling with a mix of pain, hope, and fierce affection for you. Never in her life has she heard someone speak to her so gently, with such genuine acceptance and reassurance.

She burrows her face into your neck, her arms tightening around you like a desperate vise. A surge of emotion floods her as tears prick the corners of her eyes.

“Goddamn it,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “You’re gonna make me cry with your sweet words.”

“Then I’ll wipe your tears,” you say softly to her.

The tears Sevika’s been fighting so hard to hold back finally spill over as your words sink in, a quiet sob escaping her lips. She’s not used to letting her guard down this much, to being so vulnerable in front of someone. But the way you readily accept her—the way you offer comfort without judgment—breaks down her defenses in seconds.

She buries her face deeper into your neck, her body slightly trembling as she lets out another sob.

“Damnit,” she whispers raggedly. “You’re gonna wreck me completely.”

[lilmarshie]

Hiya love! If you're still open to Marvel requests, could you do some HCs about being a Widow who's like a younger sister to Yelena and daughter to Alexei, and is dating Walker? And just how Alexei and Yelena react to reader dating John, and all that good stuff? Thanks dear, appreciate it!

Red Rooms, White Lies, and American Guys: A Widow’s Dating Dilemma

John Walker x Widow! Reader Headcanons

A/N: Thank you so much for the request, anon! I hope that you enjoy these headcanons! As always requests are always welcome and appreciated.

- Alexei and Yelena are fiercely protective over you due to you being Yelena’s younger sister and daughter of Alexei. They’ve always put you on a pedestal and made sure that you know that if anyone gets in your way they would have to go through them first. Even in terms of relationships.

- When they find out you’re dating John Walker, they're immediately suspicious. Alexei, with his over-the-top personality, confronts John directly, demanding to know his intentions. Yelena takes a more subtle approach, observing John's behavior and interactions with you, looking for any red flags.

- Yelena and Alexei's initial distrust stems from John's reputation as a soldier and his association with the U.S. government. They worry that he might be using you or that his involvement with dangerous missions could put you at risk. They also have a hard time accepting that you’re dating someone outside of their close-knit circle.

- Yelena and Alexei put John through a series of tests to gauge his character and commitment to you. They invite him to family dinners, where they bombard him with questions and observe how he handles himself. They also create scenarios where John has to prove his loyalty and protectiveness towards you.

- Over time, John proves himself to be a genuine and caring partner to you. He shows respect for your family and culture, and he goes out of his way to make you happy. Yelena and Alexei gradually begin to accept him, recognizing that he truly loves you and would do anything to protect you. Even if it means laying down his life for you.

- Despite their initial reservations, Yelena and Alexei develop a humorous banter with John. They tease him mercilessly about his "Captain America" persona and his American sensibilities. John, in turn, teases them about their Russian quirks and their overprotective nature. This playful dynamic becomes a source of amusement for the entire family.

- As John spends more time with Yelena and Alexei, he forms an unexpected bond with them. He learns to appreciate their unique perspectives and their unwavering loyalty to one another. They, in turn, see him as more than just a soldier; they see him as a flawed but ultimately good-hearted person who genuinely cares for their family.

- Despite their initial skepticism, Yelena and Alexei become staunch supporters of John and your relationship. They offer advice, lend a helping hand, and provide a sense of stability and support. They become an integral part of your lives, and your family becomes stronger as a result.

[jadeshielded]

How long has it been since he had participated in a wager that he wasn’t sure he could win? Even trivial pursuits have meaning, and for a moment, Zhongli is as still as any number of statues strewn about Liyue.

The Duke’s aim is affected, where Sedena – much like her counterpart, holds steady. Pale fingers come to tap the corner of his lips before he realizes, the brightness of his gaze sharpening as he might if he were considering a battlefield skewed in favor of the enemy.

Laughter erupts around them. A corner where drinks are scattered on an abandoned table and a game that features more darts littering the wall than the board. Blinking, he sweeps the darts between his fingers. One man leans on the other, clearly impaired but making a sharp insult as another dart flies for the ground. They dissolve into merriment. “Hm…” He glances at Wriothesley, then the winning team.

His aim is reliable, but not skilled. Another odd notion, that a loss would come to a genuine lack of skill.

roll 1: 8. Sector 19, normal   roll 2: 4 Sector 14, normal roll 3: Sector 11, normal

A friendly game. Winning, losing, neither was crippling between peers. “Hm,” He stalls again, pressing the darts to Welt’s hand with careful consideration. He’s never been one to trade taunts. They’re distractions, unnecessary. “Then we merely need to delay until you’ve lost your stamina.” Next to Wriothesley once more, he reaches out to pat his shoulder. Not quite as friendly as the team across the room, but it will have to suffice. “While I would advise you respect your elders…the formalities can be observed once we’ve beaten them.”

Team Welt/Sedene: 189 pts

Welt Misses: 1

Sedene Misses: 0

Team Wriothesley/Zhongli: 192 pts

Wriothesley Misses: 0

Zhongli Misses: 0

@secondsovereign

Three Men and a Baby (Melusine)

Revelation | Around the Clock - Wriothesley, Zhongli, Sedene, & Welt Yang

[heartstopperthoughts]

Anyone who’s been saying that Nick and Charlie are too sexually pure like “oh they’re teenage boys, they’d be having a lot of sex” has clearly never read the novella

[lucabyte]

Different standards

[carlyraejepsans]

not only do i not think lynne would ever under any circumstances call or even just think of cabanela as her dad, if that possibility ever came up in conversation i think cabanela would straight up kill himself

[doodlyreone]

< 2

[rainbowresurrection]

I ended up reading The Price of the Phoenix and while it didn't make me want to bleach my eyes like Killing Time, I still didn't like it as much as I hoped I would. Don't get me wrong, the homoeroticism was intriguing to me, but the actual writing and storyline itself left me with a headache. I think I get my hopes up with these books, given all of the possibilities that the written word has for Trek, and it inevitably sets me up for disappointment lol

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

Not main tagging this rn but it like lowkey kind of fucks me up how many of Jill's scenes with Clive you could give to another character and it would either fit that character better, or it just kind of dawns on you how little it would change the overall story if you removed the connection to Clive and Rosaria from her character and just left her time in the Iron Kingdom forced to fight in the war for the sake of innocent people (and her consequent struggle over killing)

[cartoonghosts]

need to be in linne doran at night again. i miss her and i miss how gentle she is and how quiet and alive it is there. i have this vivid memory of being at the old community school village, one of my favourite counselors had just finished telling a story, it was probably 11 30 or so, we had a fire going and were just chatting and laughing. it was summer and the stars are still in the back of my lungs, wrapping around my spine. i was taught a song that i think is staying in my bone marrow for the rest of my life. whenever i hear it, it's in two voices- the voice of the instructor i learned it from, and the voice of a close friend secondarily, weaving around it. i'm getting it tattooed on my leg eventually as part of my manta rays / stars calf tattoo and it feels like im missing something bc i dont have it. its such a part of me, i remember singing it to myself, writing it down in notebooks and journal apps, and ive never once forgot any part of it. when i heard my friend singing it for the first time a while ago i got so excited because its like- me too. i also have that song in my cartilage and tendons and bone marrow. i have it too.

[theaawalker]

Steps to Write a Genuine Platonic Relationship

follow for more tips 💋 || request writing tips 💌

1. Establish the Foundation

Define Their Connection: Decide what brings these characters together—shared history, common interests, or a deep emotional understanding.

Set Boundaries: Clarify from the start that their relationship is non-romantic, avoiding any lingering tension that could be misread as attraction.

Give Them Complementary Strengths: Show how they support and challenge each other without romantic implications, emphasizing mutual respect.

2. Shape Their Role in the Story

Decide Their Impact: Determine how their bond influences the plot—do they solve problems together, serve as each other’s moral compass, or push each other toward growth?

Avoid Romantic Clichés: Refrain from using traditional romantic tropes like longing glances, accidental physical tension, or excessive jealousy.

Show Their Value Beyond Love: Let their relationship be crucial to the story in a way that isn’t reliant on romance or tension.

3. Build Their Dynamic

Use Natural Banter: Let them have inside jokes, tease each other, or share moments of camaraderie without any romantic undertones.

Create Moments of Deep Understanding: Show how they confide in one another in ways they wouldn’t with others, reinforcing their trust and emotional closeness.

Let Them Have Other Romantic Interests: This solidifies that their bond isn’t about unspoken attraction, making it clear that romance isn’t lurking in the background.

4. Define Their Chemistry

Make Their Interactions Unique: Ensure they have a specific energy that distinguishes their bond from romantic connections in the story.

Emphasize Loyalty Over Possessiveness: They can care deeply about each other without feelings of possessiveness or unresolved tension.

Show Physical Comfort Without Romance: Casual, platonic touch like a ruffling of hair, a side hug, or a reassuring pat on the back can reinforce their connection without romantic connotations.

5. Demonstrate Their Impact on Each Other

Let Them Grow Together: Show how they influence each other’s decisions, ambitions, or emotional development without needing romance as a motivator.

Create High-Stakes Moments: Put them in situations where they rely on each other, proving their bond is just as deep as any romantic relationship.

Allow Conflicts Without Romantic Resolution: If they fight, let their reconciliation stem from their friendship and values rather than an underlying romantic interest.

6. Develop a Satisfying Arc

Decide Their Long-Term Dynamic: Whether they remain lifelong friends, drift apart naturally, or take different paths, ensure their bond leaves a lasting impact.

Showcase Their Relationship’s Meaning: Highlight how their connection was vital to their growth, reinforcing the importance of strong, platonic love.

Avoid Unnecessary Romantic Subtext: Let them stand as proof that deep, meaningful relationships don’t need romance to be powerful.

Examples of Strong Platonic Relationships

1. Film/TV Examples

Frodo & Sam (The Lord of the Rings): A loyal, emotional bond built on trust and shared hardship.

Robin & Steve (Stranger Things): A brother-sister-like friendship that develops beyond a possible hetero-romance.

Steve Rogers & Bucky Barnes (Captain America): Sibling-like love based on support, teasing, and mutual admiration.

2. Literature Examples

Duke the Guarder & Dawn Demiss (The Guardians of Camoria series): A deep friendship based on emotional intellect, trust, and shared insecurities.

Jo March & Laurie (Little Women, after rejection): A lifelong friendship that remains strong despite romantic expectations.

Harry Potter & Hermione Granger (Harry Potter series): A close friendship built on trust, emotional support, and respect without romantic tension.

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thank you, i am farkle :)

thank you @celestialgarden23 for the request :)

[retiredteabag]

can we get a smau or written (whatever gives u the most creative output) about how the jjk characters would act if the reader was mad at them :3

Including: Gojo, Nanami, Choso, Sukuna, Toji, Yuuji, and Megumi

Synopsis: They've done something to upset you... how are they reacting?

my masterlist !!

Satoru

I am so sorry to say this, but I genuinely believe that Gojo is the type to find it cute. Even if you're genuine in your frustration. He takes it too far, thinking it's funny.

For a man with perfect vision and a deep understanding of his surroundings, he is SLOW on the uptake when it comes to people disliking him. Pretty sure it's actually canon that he thinks Utahime is just playfully bantering with him...

Anyway, if you're mad at him, don't be surprised when he coos at you, patting your head, poking your cheek, etc.

Have you ever had to discipline a dog that doesn’t understand that it is misbehaving so when you raise your voice they think it’s playtime? Yeah…. He’s like that.

I'm sure at some point it becomes a real fight between you and he tries to make more of an effort to be more serious.

Nanami

Patient.

Incredibly patient. In fact, he would rarely ever raise his voice. If you were upset with him, he would want to sit down and hash it out. He would want to know exactly what caused the dissatisfaction and how to prevent it in the future.

He might get a little upset if you didn't want to talk about it. He would not mind a confrontational significant other and would prefer for you to be honest.

Even if you are mad about something small, he will treat it like the most important thing in the world.

How precious lover is mad at him? He can’t allow that.

Choso

Poor guy. He would totally panic.

If you told him you were upset with him, he would do anything in his power to make it okay. God forbid you say anything over text. He would be pacing the house, bouncing his knees, biting his cheek.

One might think he’s gonna cry, but I actually don't think he would. If he did something that actually hurt you, he would, but likely in private unless he really can’t control himself.

He seems like a deep thinker, he probably considers exactly what he means before he says something so he would consider you too in these situations.

I think he would beat himself up over it, but not want you to feel guilty. he would listen intently when you told him what had made you mad and then apologize profusely.

He’s more than willing to atone for the rest of his life even if it’s just forgetting to take the trash out.

Sukuna

Doesn't care.

Actually though, if he's done something and it's upset you, you won't have to tell him, he already knows. And I find it very likely that he would probably find it annoying if you were mad at him.

"What am I supposed to do??"

The only time he would care is if there were tears involved. If you were upset to the point that it bled into sadness? Well, now he's running through every option to make things right.

He can deal with people being upset with him, he’s always been unorthodox. He’s harsh and unforgiving, you always nag him about it.

He still cares though, in his own way, if he found you welling up, he would quickly try to calculate how to ease those feelings away.

You would need to have a discussion about it at some point, how he only seems to care when things get really bad. I do think he would make some kind of effort.

Nevertheless, he’s gonna wave you off if you’re being a brat.

Toji

Listen, some might think that he would be cruel or not care but I think he would probably be one of the more mature guys.

If he's in a proper relationship with someone, he has devoted himself to them, he respects them, and while arguments weren't uncommon, he didn't want you to resent him.

You guys were honest with one another. If you did something he didn't like, he told you on the spot, and he expected the same from you.

He was too old to play around, he wanted things to go smoothly and he couldn't sleep at night knowing you hadn't forgiven him.

Typically, if he sensed you getting upset, he would pull you aside and try to work it out. Not as polite as Nanami, keep in mind. But eager to make things right all the same.

Yuuji

Distraught.

He would probably apologize without even knowing what caused your anger. In the event that there was a proper argument happening I think he would be mature and concise.

He is sort of one-track-minded so it might catch him off guard if you express frustration.

There’s probably an occasion when you’re mad at him and he doesn’t even notice. He would be so confused when you blow up at him.

Regardless of that, he would be a very active listener.

Would probably want to hold your hand while working it out. Even of you were both angry about something, he would never let it last long. He is definitely the "don't go to bed angry" type.

Megumi

Sort of a weird mix of Toji and Gojo, you might think he isn't taking you seriously when he's just very tame. He's hearing you, taking in the information, and filing it away.

He would apologize and you might say something along the lines of "Is that it?" thinking he was just trying to be done with it, when in reality, he just isn't the argumentative type. He saves that for Itadori and Gojo.

He’s not so prideful, he doesn’t mind apologizing and it’s always genuine. The things is, since he’s so willing, you might guess it’s not genuine which could start a whole new thing…

He would make some pretty intense eye contact in these situations.