#they explain what a mother is. they get it wrong but they explain it in their own words. no one else told them that definition

[p0orbaby]

magic 8 ball

summary: What starts as Leah crashing your pity pint spirals, predictably, into something far less wholesome and far more hands-on.

warnings: SMUT 18+, just general sex stuff so you know the drill

a/n: i was inspired, not sure by what, but here we are

word count: 2.5k

-

“I’m not having a breakdown,” you say, peeling the label off your beer with such deep concentration you forget you have to breathe to survive. “I’m having a perfectly rational response to the current state of the world. And also to my boss, who thinks ‘relevance’ is when a TikTok account reposts our gallery’s Instagram.”

Leah makes a sound, something between a laugh and a sigh, and slides onto the stool next to you as if she owns the place. She probably does. Or knows someone who does. She’s wearing a camel coat from The Row that looks like it’s never seen a hanger. Soft, fluid, draped like wealth. Her hair is up—one of those deliberately lazy ponytails that costs £80 at a salon and makes people call you effortless like it’s a compliment. She probably just didn’t bother sorting it after training.

She orders a double gin and tonic. Not with Bombay or Tanqueray or any of the pedestrian options available to people who wear polyester and say OOTD. She points, without looking, at a bottle of something artisanal. Something with botanicals. Something brewed by a man with a beard who lives in Hackney and forages moss recreationally while naked.

“You’re twitching,” she says, when the bartender walks away.

“I’m fine,” you reply, tight. “I’m absolutely fucking fine.”

You’re not. You’re vibrating with the same energy as a microwave that’s just been asked to reheat a bowl of leftover soggy chicken chow mein.

Leah squints. “Your eye does this thing when you’re on the brink of homicide. It’s cute, all things considered.”

You think about stabbing her with the cocktail stick that came with the complimentary olives you got when you ordered. Instead, you finish peeling the label. The bar is now covered in neat, sticky curls of Beck’s branding. You take a vicious sort of pride in it—like this bar owes you something and you’re slowly destroying it molecule by molecule.

“I had to explain post-conceptualism to a man who unironically collects Funko Pops today.”

“God.”

“He said, ‘So it’s like Banksy but sadder?’”

“Oh, sweet Jesus.”

“And then he asked me if Damien Hirst invented fruit winders.”

Leah bites her lip to suppress a grin. You hate that she finds this funny.

“I’m in hell,” you say. “I live here now. It’s beige and the lighting’s fluorescent and all the curators wear Balenciaga in the wrong way.”

“There’s a wrong way to wear Balenciaga?”

“Yes. It’s when you do it with sincerity.”

Leah hums, amused. Her drink arrives. She picks it up like she’s in an advert for skincare. You hate her glass. It’s too clean. You hate how she sips, like the liquid is trying to earn her respect. You hate her in general, really. But it’s a specific, curated hate. The kind that comes with longing. Jealousy. Proximity.

“You’re not angry,” she says, “you’re heartbroken.”

“I am not heartbroken.”

“Fine,” she shrugs. “You’re artistically blue-balled.”

That, unfortunately, lands. You clench your jaw. You spent two months assembling an exhibit that got described as visually competent by someone whose own work consists of melting Barbie heads onto coat hooks. The only person who seemed to get it was a caretaker, and even he asked if it was “about feminism or something.”

Leah’s watching you with the sort of curiosity she usually reserves for rare mushrooms or political scandals. You feel exposed, like she’s mentally peeling your skin back to check for rot.

“I just—” You stop. You sip your beer. You stare at its froth like it insulted your mother. “I just want to make something that doesn’t immediately get filtered through someone else’s idiot-brand algorithm of what art is supposed to do. I don’t want it to do anything. I want it to exist. And I want that to be enough.”

There’s a pause. A proper silence. A respectful one.

Then Leah says, “Well. That’s depressing.”

You blink. “Do you ever have a normal human reaction?”

“I do,” she says, “just not to tantrums disguised as philosophies.”

You groan. Loudly. Obnoxiously. “Why are you here?”

She takes another sip, smacks her lips, says: “You texted me the words ‘I hope my body gets mistaken for a performance piece when I die.’ So I cleared my schedule.”

You rub your face. You did text that. You thought it was funny.

“You’re a masochist,” you mutter.

“You’re dramatic.”

You look up at her, eyes narrowed. “You think you’re better than me.”

Leah leans in, her face maddeningly calm. “Sweetheart. I know I am.”

You want to throw something at her. A pint glass. the chair you’re sitting on. Your entire unresolved emotional history. But instead you say, “Do you ever get tired of always being the most emotionally detached person in the room?”

She tilts her head. “Do you ever get tired of pretending your anger is intellectual when really you’re just sad and lonely and catastrophically underfucked?”

You nearly choke on your drink.

“I am not underfucked.”

“I can see how tense your jaw is from here. It’s clenched like a Victorian child repressing her feelings about having to crawl up another chimney. Go home and look at yourself in the mirror. Tell me that’s the face of someone getting railed regularly.”

You want to die. You also want her to say it again, slowly, in private, with less clothing.

There’s a long, crackling pause. You both know it’s no longer about art.

Leah sets down her glass. She taps the rim once, twice. Rhythm. Precision. Her nails are short, square, coated in clear polish that you don’t normally notice but have now because you can’t look her in the eye. Then you catch yourself staring at her hands for too long and quickly look away.

She doesn’t comment. But you know she notices. Leah notices everything. She notices the hair tie on your wrist has snapped and been retied in a knot, twice. She notices you’ve stopped wearing mascara, which you used to call your “armour” in that stupid, performative way you used to talk about beauty like it was actually important. She notices the crack in your lip that won’t heal because you’ve been biting it every time you think too hard.

She says, eventually, almost to herself:

“Right. That’s enough tragic brooding. Come on.”

You glance at her sideways. “Come on what?”

She lifts her chin, shrugs like it’s obvious. “It’s time for the three F’s.”

You blink. “The what?”

“The three F’s,” she repeats, counting them off on one hand like she’s listing dinner party ingredients. “Food. Fucking. And… I haven’t decided on the third one. It’s usually ‘forgiveness’ but tonight it might change depending on my mood or how close you are to bursting into tears.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you having a stroke?”

Leah ignores this. She taps her temple. “It’s a system. A trifecta. A deeply spiritual practice.”

“Sounds like a religious cult run by Gordon Ramsay.”

She smirks. “Exactly. Chips first. Sex second. Existential clarity optional.”

You stare at her, arms folded. She’s smiling now, that crooked, smug half-smile that suggests she knows she’s funny, even when you want to shove her face into a vat of chip grease.

“You offering?” you ask, dry. “For the second F?”

Leah shrugs again. “No. I saw a homeless man outside and thought you two might hit it off.”

You snort, despite yourself. “You’re a bitch.”

She sips her drink like she’s just said something unremarkable and bureaucratic, like we’ll be closing early due to maintenance. She doesn’t look at you. You’re glad. You’re not ready for the look she gives you when she’s being sincere. It’s like being x-rayed.

Then she adds, almost as an afterthought, “Of course I’m offering. Don’t be daft.”

You freeze. A beat. Another.

“I thought I was a neurotic, emotionally volatile husk of a woman with a martyr complex and an inflated sense of artistic purpose.”

“You are,” she says. “But you’ve got a decent face and you’re good with your hands. So, you know. Swings and roundabouts.”

You scoff. And you’re trying really hard to stay calm because your doctor has informed you your concerningly high blood pressure is a direct correlation of your erratic emotions.

“What happened to chips first?”

“Oh, I still want chips. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since three and I’m craving something fried and disgusting. Preferably served by someone with a name badge and an attitude problem.”

You nod slowly. “That’s the most grounded thing you’ve said all night.”

“Thank you. I’m a woman of the people.”

She drains her gin and stands, smooth and sudden, like movement happens to her rather than from her. You watch the line of her coat shift across her hips and hate her a little more. In a nice way. A respectful way.

She glances back at you, already heading toward the door. “You coming, or are you going to sit here frowning into warm beer like the ghost of failed gallery interns past?”

You mutter something under your breath and follow. Of course you do. It’s Leah.

It’s always Leah.

-

“You’re making that face again.”

Leah’s looking at you from the other end of the bed—half undressed, half mocking, propped up on her elbow like some god-awful, lesbianised version of a Greek statue who knows exactly how fit she is.

You’re topless and regretting all your life choices. “What face?”

“The one that says, ‘this is a terrible idea but I’m already wet so fuck it.’”

She’s not wrong.

You shoot her a glare and yank your bra off in one not so smooth move. It slaps the floor with the exhausted whimper of cotton that’s held too many disappointing breasts over the years.

“God, you’re hot when you’re angry,” she says, and you want to laugh. Or hit her. Or sit on her face. All three feel valid.

“Shut up and lie down.”

She does. Immediately. The smugness fades slightly, replaced by something quieter. More concentrated. She watches you crawl over her like a lion stalking its prey. Or more realistically like you’re some slow-motion car crash she wants to get hit by.

You kiss her. Sloppy. Unapologetic. More tongue than technique. It’s not romantic. It’s hot. It’s urgent. It tastes like gin and old rage.

Somewhere between biting her lip and grinding down against her thigh, you lose track of how long you’ve been pretending not to want this. Leah’s skin is warm and annoyingly soft. Her bra’s still on. She’s still wearing her bra.

You reach for it, fumbling. “Why are these always like a NASA launch?”

She laughs into your neck. “You’ve never undressed another woman before, have you?”

“Only emotionally.”

You finally get the clasp and she shrugs out of it, tits bouncing slightly. You both pretend not to notice how your brain flatlines for a second. You’re supposed to be cool. You’re supposed to be in control.

But her nipples are hard and you’re throbbing and when she reaches between your legs without warning, you gasp—loud and unedited.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Warn a girl.”

“You’ve literally been grinding on my thigh for five minutes.”

“That’s different. That’s friendship.”

Leah slips her hand down your knickers. Finds you soaked. She hums like she’s impressed. Or smug. Probably both.

“Jesus, babe,” she says. “You’re soaked.”

You scoff. “Don’t call me babe. You sound like some weirdo on Love Island.”

“Fine. Darling?”

“Worse.”

“You’re tight when you’re annoyed,” she murmurs, and then pushes two fingers in. Just like that.

You moan. Too loudly. Your hips buck automatically.

“Oh, fuck—”

Leah grins like a wolf. She curls her fingers and your whole spine tries to fold in half.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she says, pumping slow, deliberate, unfair. “There. Right there. Don’t move.”

You immediately move. “Fuck, wait—fuck, there.”

She groans, her forehead pressed to yours. “You’re so annoying.”

You kiss her to shut her up and reach down between her legs. Her knickers are drenched too. You laugh.

“What?” she says, breath hitching.

“Nothing. Just didn’t know England’s golden girl got this wet.”

“I’m a footballer,” she pants, “not a cardinal.”

You pull her knickers aside, push two fingers in easily. She’s hot and slick and all kinds of fuckable. Her eyes roll back for a second. She grabs your arm, anchoring herself. Her nails dig in.

“Oh my god. Keep doing that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t—don’t fucking stop.”

You thrust harder, matching her rhythm, both your hands moving now—sloppy and synchronised. Her hips are rolling. Yours too. There’s swearing. Lots of it. You’re both flushed and swearing and laughing in between grunts.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “Harder.”

You give it to her harder. You give it to her like a promise. Like revenge.

At one point you both reach for each other at the same time and bang foreheads. Loudly.

“Ow,” you groan, blinking.

She’s laughing. “This is the least elegant sex I’ve ever had.”

“Good,” you growl, sucking a bruise into her neck. “I’m not here to be elegant.”

You push her legs wider. You go lower.

“Wait—are you—oh fuck—”

You don’t bother answering. You just get your mouth on her. One long, filthy lick from her entrance to her clit and she arches like she’s being electrocuted.

“Jesus CHRIST,” she chokes. “You’ve done this before.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You just moan into her cunt and keep going.

Her hand finds your hair and tugs. Not hard. Just enough to make you feel owned.

She’s close. You can feel it. She starts talking like a woman possessed.

“Yes. There. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”

You don’t. Of course you don’t. You flatten your tongue and she breaks.

She cums hard, loud, practically shaking, her thighs closing around your head like a vice.

When she collapses, she pulls you up, kisses you like she’ll die if she doesn’t, and flips you over. She doesn’t even hesitate. Her mouth is on you like it’s home. She licks you open, groaning like you’re her favourite meal and she’s been fasting.

“Oh fuck me,” you cry, gripping the headboard like it’s a lifeline.

She hums against your clit. You nearly black out.

“Yeah?” she says, lifting her head. “That good?”

You nod, dazed.

“Use your words.”

“More.”

“More what?”

“More Leah.”

She moans like that’s the final straw and fingers you hard, mouth locked around your clit as if it belongs there. You cum embarrassingly fast. Practically scream. Collapse against the pillow like a dramatic Victorian wife.

There’s a beat. Silence. Both panting.

Then:

“I think I saw god.”

Leah wipes her mouth and shrugs. “Tell her I said hi.”

You both dissolve into hysterical laughter, tangled up and sweaty and slightly horrified.

“So,” you say, catching your breath. “The verdict on the third F?”

She grins. “I think I'll stick with forgiveness. For all the shit we’re about to pretend didn’t just happen.”

You nod. “Fair.”

And then you kiss her again. Because honestly, what else are you going to do?

[disneyvillainsdaily]

Mother Gothel's manipulation tactics are chilling when you take any time to analyze them. One of the biggest aspects of her manipulation is how, when she speaks to Rapunzel, she ONLY speaks in absolutes. Every single time they interact, Gothel only says either "yes, will, are," or "no, not, won’t, aren't" (most of the time it's the latter).

You can find this in practically every line of her song "Mother Knows Best." She is constantly drilling in the fact that she knows everything that Rapunzel doesn't, and that she's more trustworthy to Rapunzel than Rapunzel even is to herself. Gothel sings things like "something will go wrong, I swear," and "on your own you won’t survive." She repeats and repeats and repeats the idea to Rapunzel that she needs to fear ever going out: it's not that something might happen to her if she's not careful, it's that something will happen to her no matter what, and it will be bad. Not to mention one of the last lines: "Don't forget it. [You will] regret it." Yeah, not an average good-guy thing to say to your child.

But, besides her song, Gothel does still constantly speak in that "it is or it isn't" way. One absolutely wild line that you don't realize the full sinister-nature of until you think more on it is the one about Rapunzel's birthday.

Rapunzel mentions that Gothel didn't really react when she said it's a "pretty big day" tomorrow, so Rapunzel just tells her outright that tomorrow is her birthday. Gothel responds with, "No, no, no. Can't be. I distinctly remember. Your birthday was last year."

Gothel knows what a birthday is: that's the only way Rapunzel would know what a birthday is. Gothel would had to have explained what the day is, when it is for Rapunzel, and that it's a celebration of some kind, or Rapunzel would have no idea that it's even a thing. Maybe Gothel gave Rapunzel a small gift on her birthday when she was little just to seem nice, and then she had to explain what it was.

But now, Gothel just doesn't feel like keeping it up anymore. She doesn't really want to inconvenience herself in any way or take time out of a single day to do something for Rapunzel (because Rapunzel probably wants a gift or something).

So, Gothel attempts to gaslight Rapunzel on the spot. She says, "no" and "can't be." She explicitly denies Rapunzel's statement that tomorrow is her birthday. Even if Rapunzel can recall what a birthday is, Gothel is telling her that whatever she recalls is wrong.

She then says, "Your birthday was last year." It's an attempt to reframe what she might have told Rapunzel about how birthdays work. Gothel doesn't want to bother with Rapunzel's birthdays anymore, so now she's going to try to explain them in a different way - possibly explaining them as "not going to happen any more" for some reason, or something of the sort.

Unluckily for her, Rapunzel is getting a bit independent, and says back, "That's the thing about birthdays. They're kind of an annual thing." Gothel doesn't deny it any further because she realizes Rapunzel would be knowledgeable enough to bring up how she has explained birthdays in the past. She simply gives in for now and doesn't mention that "birthday was last year" thing a single time after, basically treating it like she never even said it. She probably would've tried something again on a future date, or tried to make birthdays seem like less of a big deal next time so that she wouldn't have to do anything for Rapunzel down the line.

The point is, she is willing to state absolutely anything to Rapunzel so she can do what she wants. She speaks in a manner that makes everything she says the be-all-end-all of everything Rapunzel knows, and Gothel is willing to pull the rug out from under whatever Rapunzel may believe if it is of any inconvenience.

[Rapunzel and] Mother Gothel - Tangled (2010)

[bellysoupset]

A much needed talk - II

"Where are you?"

"Uh- On my way up to my apartment...?" Wendy frowned, her cellphone squeezed between her cheek and shoulder, while she held onto the groceries bag. She could not wait for Vin to move in, he never allowed her to grocery shop and she abhorred doing it anyway, "why?"

Jonah didn't answer her, only disconnected the call and Wendy squirmed to drop the phone on her hand, staring at it in disbelief. What the fuck?

As soon as the elevator doors opened, though, she had her answer.

Jon was crumpled on the wall right next to her door, arms crossed, car keys tightly squeezed in his hand, whole face looking a little swollen like he had been crying... A duffle bag on the floor next to his foot.

"JON?!" She rushed to him, dumping the paper bags next to his duffle bag and Wendy didn't even have any time to cup his face or hug him, before Jonah was crumpling forward, whole face contorting as he collapsed against her.

"Oh wow- Okay, okay, darling," Wendy cooed, wrapping her arms around him, trying not to stumble at his weight and rubbing his back. He was shaking with empty sobs, tears long dried, but his body still wanting to keep crying, "I got you, Jon," she whispered, squeezing him just as tightly.

Wendy wasn't sure how long the hug lasted, but it was longer than pretty much any other hug she had ever shared with Jonah. Long enough that she had time to think the situation through and only arrived at one conclusion: the engagement was off.

Nothing else explained Jonah being this distraught and the freaking overnight bag. He'd never leave home, no matter how bad his fight with Leo might've been. On top of that, she couldn't understand who would've called it off. Not Jonah, judging by his entirely out of character weeping, but if it had been Leo, Jon wouldn't have left his own place-

He sniffled, grossly and finally pulled back, wiping at his face, "I- I... Can I spend the night?"

As if he'd ever have to ask. Wendy rolled her eyes, picking up her groceries once more and unlocking the front door, nodding so Jonah would get in first. She had never seen him so defeated, which was saying quite a lot because only 2 weeks before she had been by his side as he watched Leo day and night like a hawk in a hospital bed. However then he had been so locked in Leo getting better, there hadn't been any tears, just furious hope.

She didn't ask what was wrong right away, instead walking ahead to put the groceries in the kitchen and planting a kettle on the stove to make some tea. Chamomile, for nerves.

Jonah put away his bag in the living room, then sat down on the couch and just... Stayed there. Staring at her unlit fireplace in a vacant way, until Wendy returned with a steamy mug and placed it in his hands.

"Drink it up, Jon," she sat next to him and planted a hand on her best friend's shoulder, pulling him so his back was resting against the couch instead of that stiff, robotic position from before.

There was a long minute of silence, and then he said in a quiet voice, "Leo doesn't want kids."

She had always known Jonah wanted kids. Not that he had ever told her, it wasn't a topic between them, but it was impossible not to notice how he perked up around children. Back during college, before they picked their specialties and while they were interning, she had genuinely wondered if Jonah was going to go the pediatrician route. It had quickly been disproved by how little patience he had with parents.

However, until this moment, Wendy had no idea of where did Leo stand on this. She had noticed he didn't light up with kids like Jon did, but neither did Bella and that didn't change that ginger had made it plenty clear she wanted to be a mother. That didn't really mean anything.

"You hadn't... You hadn't discussed it up until now?" Wendy tried to keep the disbelief and judgement from her voice, criss crossing her legs and worriedly eyeing Jon up and down. He wasn't drinking, simply holding the mug as a hand warmer and staring at the bottom of it as he shook his head.

"I thought... I was stupid," he sniffled once more, "I knew Leo didn't particularly love kids, but I figured- Ours. In the future. With me," his words came out strangled, "and I just- I love him. There's no one I'd want to do this with, but him. It's not just being a father what I want, I want to be a father with him- But..."

"Jonah," Wendy reached in, grabbing his hands, "did you call off the engagement...?"

He let out a wounded noise, but shook his head, "No. No, fuck- No," Jon pulled his hand from hers, in order to wipe at his eyes, "I can't- I love him so much, Wendy, this isn't fair."

"I know, darling," she sighed, scooting closer, "it doesn't have to mean its over, Jonah... Leo will come around."

A huff, Jon's face scrunching up as if he was in pain, "and if he doesn't? You don't- Would you?"

It was the wrong question to be asked, to the wrong person and Wendy considered flat out lying, but before she could, Jonah was already reading the answer on her face.

"Yeah," his voice came out strangled, "if he doesn't- I-" he tried to suck in air, but it became a gag and Wendy hurried to remove the mug from his hands as Jonah rushed to press a hand to his lips and shot up, stumbling out of the living room to her guest bathroom.

She overheard him heaving, loud and violent, half a retch, half a sob. When she got to the bathroom, he was curled up in front of the toilet, hugging his knees in an incredibly childish position that was nothing like Jon, forehead resting on his forearm as he stared at his lap.

"Jonah," Wendy crouched down next to him, rubbing his arm, "sweetheart, you'll drive yourself crazy-"

"I should- I should've told him," Jonah sniffled, his voice muffled as he refused to lift up his head, "I should've told him I wanted this from the get go- Before... Before I-"

Proposed?

"-Before I fell in love with him," he completed, shoulders shaking as another sob wrecked through him, "it's too fucking late now, either way its a mess. Either he changes his mind and I- I force him to be a dad and he's unhappy or he doesn't and I- I'll never-"

Wendy didn't miss how the option of breaking things off was not even on the table,, despite it being the most logical conclusion if they wanted completely different lives. She moved closer and threw her arms around him, pulling Jonah to her and he buried his face on her chest, nose on her collarbone as he continued to try and breathe.

"He'll come around," Wendy pressed her lips to the top of his head, "Leo loves you so much-"

"It doesn't matter," Jonah said quietly, "I'm not gonna force him into this... I won't."

[itsblubun]

Talking about Nathaniel and the homophobia allegory / artist themes in The Ruler because I am not sane (very unorganized thoughts ahead)

First of, oh my god the homophobia allegory. I have so many sporadic thoughts that I'll try my best to explain.

Homophobia is such a taboo topic, especially in children's cartoons, that it's incredibly refreshing to see miraculous of all shows tackle it with such forwardness. There's really not all that much sugarcoating, it's the story of a queer kid growing up in a homophobic household, having heteronormativity indoctrinated onto him, having to deal with close-minded family who refuse to support you, because they fully believe you're on the wrong path, making decisions that will "ruin your life", claiming your passions as "just a phase", and being threatened to live in isolation from your peers, the people you are most close with in the world due to being "a bad influence" on you.

They push their ideologies so hard on Nath that he actually goes through with what they say. He destroys his art, literally shreds the story he's worked so hard on because of his mother. She says so many times how she's going to "set him straight", saying that he needs to be "converted" to be successful or for the world to accept you. That his art is meaningless and immature and he needs to make "real art".

His father also adds onto it by saying the comic book knights should fall in love with the literal villain because "that's what people want to see". Like the relationship between the knights wasn't sentimental, like it was meaningless, like it wasn't love.

Marc's parents also show up for the first time, and they're the complete opposite. They're incredibly supportive, accepting, kind, and they absolutely love the script for their comic, saying that it clearly came from the heart. They let Marc express himself, they let Marc love who he wants to love. It's honestly a bit jarring to compare Marc's parents to Nathaniel's. (Nath always looks so sad with them oh my heart 😭)

But despite everything I just said, the ending is a really beautiful conclusion.

The comic knights get to be together, and Nathaniel finally gets the acceptance of his family. His mom finally accepts him for who he is, and supports the art he makes. Because it's so clear now, that it's from the heart. And that's the most beautiful thing art can be.

A lot of artists have dealt with invalidation, wether from uneducated people or other artists, for "not being professional" or "not what's expected to make in in the industry". Because these artists choose to make the art they want to, choose to express themselves and be bold.

Nathaniel's mom being an architect really sells the themes of art in the episode. She's strict, unbending, and she clearly has very closed minded views on what art should or shouldn't be made. In her standards, if it's not in a museum, it's not art. But that's just simply not true.

Art is a beautiful thing, in whatever form it is. It's pure, it's passionate, it's what makes us human.

While its incredibly refreshing to see such a bold queer allegory in a kids show, it's also beautiful to see the story of an artist like Nathaniel be put front and center and tackle the many sides and points of view that someone can have on your art.

Because, while his mom sees it as immature, his friends and boyfriend absolutely LOVE it. They adore the story they're telling and literally flock in a circle to be able to see it.

And then the fact that the episode ends with Marc and Nathaniel revealing their identities to each other, the same way the comic knights revealed theirs... Ties the allegory with a beautiful bow and ships it over straight to my heart.

I love this episode so much, and I seriously can't wait to see more. Miraculous team, you cooked.

[lilybecca1]

What Bakugo being your favorite character might say about you

1. Your whole life you were viewed and treated as someone who had to be perfect, who had no right to be weak. Everyone spoke highly of you and like you're a prodigy, yet as soon as you made a mistake, they told you you're stupid, a failure who cannot do anything right. Because of this, you developed a black and white view, seeing yourself as either above everyone else, or seeing yourself as someone who will never be able to be as good as anyone else, who fails at all aspects of life, who is completely beneath them, incapable of doing even the most basic things.

2. Sometimes, it feels like everyone is better than you. Like no matter how hard you try, you’ll never become your own person. You’ll never win. You’ll never be enough.

3. All your life, impossible expectations were placed on you. They made you a perfectionist. Even when you succeed, even when you're objectively doing well and you have great achievements, it still doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

4. Whenever you made a mistake as a child, you were judged and viewed as someone incapable of achieving anything, and over time you internalized that, making you overly critical of yourself, hating yourself for every small mistake that you make, making you more and more frustrated and feeling like you're a worthless human being who doesn't deserve any praise or appreciation.

5. Because of your childhood, you developed a love/hate relationship with yourself, either loving how deep and complex you are, or despising yourself because you can't do anything right and you ruin everything.

6. You were never allowed to show emotion. Around your mother, it felt like walking on eggshells. One wrong word, one wrong look, and they would snap, scream and humiliate you, not caring if you are in public or not. They never cared about your point of view, if you were also hurt or not, they would only care about how they felt, making you listen to their rants. They would keep going at it for hours and hours, talking or shouting non-stop, while you were unable to even get a word in, until they have gotten everything out of their system, and then it was like nothing even happened at all, and they'd go back to being the "good parent", making you sometimes feel like you have just imagined it all.

7. Whenever you tried to speak up and express your opinion, they got defensive. They turned everything into a shouting match, calling you ungrateful, accusing you of disrespect. All while denying you the basic respect they demanded for themselves.

8. You felt like you had to keep whatever you felt inside as a child, bottling your emotions up and letting them out behind walls where no one else could see you. By adulthood you became someone who couldn't express their emotions properly, couldn't talk about your vulnerabilities, couldn't explain why you are feeling the way that you are.

9. People see you as quiet, someone they don’t really know. But when you finally feel comfortable enough to be yourself, to be loud and passionate, they say you're too much. Too loud. Too intense. And once again, you feel like you're wrong for being who you are.

10. You feel controlled and abandoned at the same time. One of your parents is trying to control your entire life to the point that you have no privacy, you're not allowed to have any personal opinions, and if you ever try to talk back or say that you want to do something else, you're seen as "rebellious" and an ungrateful child. Meanwhile, the other parent has been emotionally absent in your life, and you don't really know how to act when you're with them, you feel awkward with them. You don't feel emotionally close, you don't really have the parent-child bond with them that you always wanted. You feel like strangers even if you're living together.

11. When someone questions why you are the way you are, and why you don't try to change your situation, why you don't stand up for yourself more against the people that oppress you, you snap because you cannot explain it. You know what happened, why it happened, you know how hard it is to grow up like that, and you know how hard it is to just change, to cut yourself off, to stop being the way that you are, but you get overwhelmed, and feel like crying because it’s not something you can put into words.

12. No matter what you do, you're always seen as the problem. The one who overreacts. The one who’s “too much.” People don't see your point of view, and you're too tired to try to explain it all the time, yet noone actually understands.

13. You have more rage inside of yourself than most people. All the suppressed anger, pain and confusion from your childhood has accumulated into a deep-seated rage that explodes out of you whenever it is triggered. On the outside you just seem like someone who's always angry, defensive, and who always takes everything personally, but people don't see that all that rage is just the manifestation of all that pain and trauma deep inside you.

14. Whenever that rage explodes out of you, you just want to lash out and make others feel the pain that you feel, but when it's all over you quiet down, you feel humbled, guilty. You don't understand why you're like this. You don't know how to escape it, you don't know whether you should be angry and shout at everyone, or keep everything inside until it becomes too much.

15. You've always had trouble with making friends, you feel like none of your connections are real, like you'll never have that strong bond that your soul craves, even with your closest friend. You feel like you'll never meet anyone who's like you.

16. You're a sensitive soul with a good heart, but you find it hard to be empathetic and provide emotional comfort to others. You don't know how to "nurture" others, you don't know how to be helpful and kind like others. You can't find your place in life, and you don't know who you are supposed to be. You feel like you will always be alone, searching for a sense of purpose that you'll never find.

17. All that anger is just a cry for help, to be understood, to finally stop feeling so much. You push others away out of last resort, because you're scared of vulnerability, in fight or flight mode like an animal that's cornered, yet all you wish for is for someone to love you and give you the warmth and comfort that you never received.

18. You hate how your parent raised you. But sometimes you look at yourself and realize you have become just like them.

[cottagecore-raccoon]

In honor of @niko-week, here are some Niko Sasaki centered fics I think deserve more attention:

Colors of the Day by Violet_Baudelaire

A look at Niko’s outfit choices throughout the series.

Get Orbed, Losers by wording

Niko, Charles and Edwin are trapped inside a haunted house with an angry poltergeist when Charles and Edwin are poofed. Niko then has to save the day with only two chatty orbs for company.

Magic by brainrot_bee

Niko wants to learn magic

Rose Quartz by agentearthling

“Why?” Niko asked, turning towards him with wide eyes. “What does pink mean?” Her dad smiled. “It's for someone you love,” he explained. “Someone so special to you, that you don't have the words to describe it. When you can't find the words, you give them a pink stone.” * OR: Niko decides to confess to Crystal the Sasaki way.

Giving and Receiving by Vialana

The thing is, Niko knew what it meant the first time she shook the 8-ball and saw her future.

To Love Love by soapscum

Love, Niko had always known, was the most powerful, most important force of all.

just another girl by Silvercyclops

Niko’s got her head on Edwin’s shoulder and he’s rubbing soothing circles on her shoulder with his thumb. He mercifully hasn’t asked her what’s wrong, just sat there with her and let her collect her thoughts. Her thoughts about Crystal.

brave by The_IPRE

“Do you miss your mom?” Niko asks, and Edwin stiffens like he wasn’t expecting the question. Niko wasn’t really expecting to ask it, either, but it felt easier than rereading the letter, and she may be being brave but she can take baby steps to get there. It’s scary, and everyone should be proud that she isn’t just ignoring the topic of mothers altogether. Edwin reaches forward, carefully pressing the spacebar of the computer to pause the episode. Scooby Doo is left frozen on the screen, eyes wide in comical confusion, and Niko smiles a little. Edwin’s voice is quiet and measured when he speaks, not looking at her. “I have been dead longer than I was ever alive.” “That doesn’t mean you can’t miss her.”

Doomed by the Narrative by un1que_zx

Niko Sasaki would consider herself an expert on all things romance. She'd read so many books about so many kinds of people falling in love over and over again in so many different ways that it was hard not to be an expert on romance. She loved love, much more than the average person did, if you asked her. That did not mean she wanted to experience it herself, though. For all the different love stories she's read, there was always one theme in love stories like hers: tragedy. Girls fell in love with other girls all the time, but it very rarely ended well. -- Or: Niko and Crystal VS the bury your gays trope

Slightly Dead (Mostly Alive) by SpaceWall

One Year Later, Niko Sasaki comes home. -- He looked just the same, except for the look on his face when he saw Niko, which was like she was important. Like she really mattered. Nobody had looked at her like that in a really long time.

Feel free to reblog with other Niko fics you love! Self recs more than welcome :)

[divinekangaroo]

Was thinking while watching that scene where Pol tells Ada about her abortion.

Polly really doesn't take on the mum role in the family to my mind, or even the matriarch/aunt tbh. And I think, there was some summary somewhere that referred to her as the consigliere and while she does perform a certain bouncing-board, plan formation role with Tommy (and only with Tommy, and only with insight into certain parts of his plans; I'm struggling to think of times the others listen to her without Tommy backing her up, S3 as example of when they don't), her other behaviours in the family also mean this isn't her role at all.

She's the wild older sister who is loving and explosive and hurtful, and incredibly, incredibly fragile, afraid and she feels so very scared, vulnerable and alone, most of the time. She just wants all her loved ones to be happy and safe and in achieving that, Tommy is frequently as much of an obstacle as he is the vehicle to get her that. I do headcanon that Polly lives 99% of her life in fear and on that edge of breakdown, it's just that she's lived with it so long she probably doesn't even acknowledge it any more. Her reactivity is so high.

So yeah, it's no wonder Tommy sort of plays that joint patriarch-matriarch role (arranging marriages etc), because Polly is *not* playing the matriarch.

[figureitoutinthemorning]

He has decided to join me for Floor Time.

[crearuru]

Another year of frieren discourse ahead lads

[autistic-shaiapouf]

Beginning to really wonder how much of my financial concern is manufactured and handed to me as opposed to something I'm genuinely concerned by

[dulcewrites]

TW

When I was an HARDCORE team black fan, I was into that then over the months, by learning stuff from Fire and Blood and reading posts, then shifting my interests in general made me realize how messy is the Targaryen's dinasty.

The Targaryens aren't cool people that will do anything for the family but THEIR HOUSE, THEIR LEGACY: they are blood supremacist, misogynistic people that harmed each other for the throne and they are supposed to be FAMILY?!

Reminds me of the writer's explanation regard dragons: They aren't friendly creatures, They are WAR MACHINES, THEY ARE GOING TO DESTROY WESTEROS and if that's not a metaphor of the Targaryens' dynamics, I don't know.

Also I drifted away from Hotd fics in general for the whiteness(🤣kinda tired to hear about Visenya and Aemma get into it with Aemond) Alicent's villanization(I deleted a bunch of fics because it was always: " Nyra is a great mother and a feminist while Alicent is abusive and misogynistic")a child bride that for the love she felt for her children, she started a war and people there will be like: "well Rhaenyra wouldn't harm her children.."

She demanded a child to be tortured,let's not talk about her husband who hates Hightowers and sent blood and cheese to murder and rape a child.

Ah also Daemon abandoned his wife to save Nettles, her supposed daughter; while Nyra was losing her mind and grieving the death of his children(Malewife indeed)

So I don't know why Alicent wouldn't trust any of them???hmmm seems pretty clear for me.

I’d honestly get it, and then at the very least would know to avoid it, if people would tag properly/be honest about what they are writing. Tag it Alicent bashing and call it a day lmao. Like I said in the tags of the post I made, it’s just so disingenuous to have fics claiming to be fix its where you see Alicent being the sole blame for everything while all the men (namely Daemon and Viserys since they are ‘team black’) get turned into plucky tv sitcom dads lmao. Or fics where for some reason Alicent’s children would hate her or Alicent is some cunt for standing in the way of ‘love’. It’s misogyny really, bc nothing Alicent has done would even rank her in the top 5 worst characters. And that goes for the book and show. You’re fixing the timeline by punishing/shitting on the child bride and not the creep who married her, maritally raped her and ruined his daughter’s claim in the process?? Yeah makes perfect sense

Imo it seems easier and frankly more fascinating to actually lean into the family dynamics that plague Targaryens as a whole, and BOTH team green and team black in specific. We literally get Rhaenyra in the first seen of the show saying that the only thing that can bring down the house of the dragon is the house itself. Turning team black into the Brady brunch does so much disserve to their characters as a whole. Idk if I was a targ stan or even someone who wanted to write for team black, which I do not and don’t see myself ever being, I would much rather just run with the messiness 🤷🏽‍♀️

Plus, like you said, the overwhelming amount of whiteness in fics is exhausting. This goes for literally every fandom under the son unfortunately. But it’s compounded in fantasy/sci-fi related media fandoms bc people hide behind bs reasons like ‘historical accuracy’ or ‘well the author [insert something the author never said]’. Mind you, they have no problem writing about Dragon and witches and shit

[nowendil]

i really dont get what my problem is!!

[krispiecake]

currently thinking about how when i told my dad to tell my mother i would not be speaking to her until she apologised she just. straight up stopped even trying to contact me. like, not even a text. absolutely insane how much this woman refuses to admit that maybe she was wrong about how she handles some things. she cannot swallow her pride to even do this one really small basic show of respect. fucking mental.

[tulipfemme]

-

[saltynsassy31]

I usually tend to get very emotional when watching something, and there's a moment in it where the kid comes crying to their parent in complete despair and you get to see the turmoil the parent is going through.

And then I started to think about the time I was being harassed at school, one boy specifically targeting me, chasing me around, grabbing at me, scaring me. I remember coming home crying, sobbing, shaking, and going to my mom about it.

I will never truly see how her POV was, but I can only imagine. Being a mom, who just moved countries and is a whole ocean away from any friends or family, just her, her husband, and her two daughters. You wanted better opportunities for your daughters, opportunities that your home country couldn't offer. Life was perfect before, though, and now you uprooted your whole family to an unfamiliar place with no one to turn to.

School didn't used to be this bad. There were mean kids, but not this level of harassment. From students, teachers, both hating your kids for simply coming from someplace else.

My mom has told me that she started to doubt her decision several times, that she often wondered if she should have stayed behind. Her family, her husband and his family, they all criticised her. And then, seeing us suffer so much, I can't even begin to imagine the stress she was under.

Despite the struggle, though, it has been one of the best decisions ever. She was right in the better opportunities part, even if it wasn't as we had imagined.

She wasn't perfect. She still isn't. She still hurts me sometimes, but I don't think I can ever thank her enough. I admire her so deeply. She's my biggest inspiration for strength. This is only a fraction of the things that happened that she had to deal with.

She does things sometimes that hurt me, but I can never hate her.

[figureitoutinthemorning]

I don’t know, I’m kind of frustrated about it, though! Because for once I wanted to make a decision that was entirely mine, not calculated to keep my family happy. And staying, even if I’m working towards a different qualification, feels like I’m trying to placate them. You’d think I’d have outgrown this nonsense.