𝐵𝓇𝑜𝒶𝒹𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝐵𝓊𝓃𝓃𝓎

this pride month I am wishing everyone a very stop overanalyzing yourself and just have fun with it. have gay sex. don't have any sex. try on a new gender. stop caring about gender at all. talk to your doctor about hormones. go on a date. break up with the person you dont love. whatever it is you have been putting off doing by dithering about it in your head. just do that and fully experience how it feels without trying to put it into words. if you still need a word for it later there will be one. they aren't going anywhere. but people were here before language and there's only so far language can go in giving you a fulfilling human experience. so if you are hiding behind finding the right words for whatever it is your heart wants i hope this month you get the courage to just do it instead.

Posting isn't activism.

Go out and do something.

Posting will never be activism.

Go out and do something.

Posting can be advocacy.

Go out and engage with the causes you advocate for.

Posting is not active. Posting is passive.

Activism is active. So go out and act.

Shout out to the autistic who’s abilities have regressed as they’ve gotten older.

“You didn’t used to be like this when you were a kid.” I know please don’t remind me

Doctors should snark at each other more, be a bit mean. Not for no reason, mind you. But if five doctors blow me off about symptoms and doctor number six FINALLY runs actual tests and gets a diagnosis, I think it should be Doctor Six's right to call up the other five and tell them they're lazy pieces of shit. That should be socially encouraged. Those first five doctors clearly can't listen to patients, but maybe another doctor might finally get to them.

Mascs and butches and studs who like being called pretty boy.

Reblog if you agree.

LaDs Men Hexed to Their Kid Form

AN: ovaries are working overtime today.

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader (Platonic ish)

Genre: Hurt and shit ton of comfort

TW: children being sad

Ingredients: 60% angst , 40% comfort

My Fav: All of them.

Background: The battle had been close, too close. The Wanderers swarmed, overwhelming you both. You fought back-to-back, every breath a struggle. Then the blast hit him, filling the entire field with dense, choking smoke. You staggered forward, coughing, vision blurred, and found him...Or rather, a child swimming in his too-large clothes. He looked up at you, wide-eyed and confused, the face of a five-year-old where your partner should have been.

And so you are stuck with the toddler version of your partner for the week it takes for the spell to wear off.

Xavier:

The moment you pick him up, he melts against you, tiny fingers clutching your shirt as his eyes flutter shut. Within seconds, the Crown Prince Xavier of Philos is softly snoring in your arms, his head nestled against your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.

He’s such a sweet kid. The kind who spends hours making flower potions, carefully plucking petals and crushing them into muddy brews in the garden.

He speaks in surprisingly proper sentences at the strangest times, his tiny frame somehow finding perfect, upright posture as he asks, “A sip of tea, if you please?” as if you have a silver tea set stashed in your cabinets.

He loves sparring with you, too. Will drag you out to the backyard, a twig clutched tightly in his little fist, his stance serious, his expression set. He takes his training so seriously, his tiny brows furrowed in concentration as he swipes at your legs, his feet shuffling through the grass clumsily.

You can’t bring yourself to break his little warrior heart, so you pretend to dodge his tiny, furious attacks, stumbling back dramatically as he strikes your shin with all the force of a gentle pat.

“Good form, Your Highness,” you say, clutching your side like you’ve been mortally wounded, and his eyes sparkle with pride.

He’s a model patient, too. Sits obediently through every check-up and magical test you arrange to break the curse, his little legs swinging off the edge of the examination table, his small hands gripping yours for comfort.

And when he finally turns back, Xavier hesitates, for a moment. He brushes his fingers over the dried flower petals still scattered on your windowsill, his expression distant, his posture just as straight and proper as ever.

“Thank you... for looking after me,” he says quietly, his voice softer, a little more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it.

He also becomes the unabashed source of months of baby fever to follow, because now you can’t unsee the tiny, mud-streaked prince who once demanded you fetch him grape juice like it was royal wine.

Rafayel:

He’s the tantrum kid. The one you hear before you see, little feet stomping, high-pitched wails echoing through the halls. He’ll thrash on the floor over the smallest inconvenience, his tiny fists pounding the carpet as if it personally offended him.

Give him a set of paints or a shallow pool, though, and he’s content, for a while. He needs attention, craves it like a plant craves sunlight. He soaks it up, demands it, his bright eyes watching you to make sure you’re still looking, still clapping, still there.

He’s a prankster, too. No better than a fae changeling. He whispers to empty corners at 10 p.m., tilts his head as if listening to something only he can hear, then giggles when you whirl around, heart racing. He lives to catch you off guard, to see the startled, exasperated look on your face.

“Rafayel!” you shout, splashing into a flooded bathroom, the tide already creeping into the living room carpet. And... is that a starfish clinging to your couch cushion?

You scoop him out of the mess, his wet, squirming body deposited onto the couch as you dash to stop the flood. He grins up at you, eyes bright with mischief, water still dripping from his curls, and you can’t help the exasperated laugh that escapes you.

But for all his noise and chaos, there are nights when you find him curled up in a corner, his little shoulders shaking, cheeks wet with silent tears.

It’s always the same question, whispered between hiccups: “Why can’t I feel it? Why can’t I hear them?”

He’s too young to understand, to process the strange, aching emptiness in his heart. The absence of Lemuria’s call, the gentle hum of the ocean he was born to rule.

And all you have to offer is a soothing lullaby, your voice soft in the darkness as you rock him in your arms. He clings to you, tiny fingers curled into your shirt, his face buried in your shoulder, and you can feel the wet warmth of his tears soaking into your skin.

Eventually, he falls asleep, his breathing slow and heavy, but his cheeks stay streaked with salt, his grief lingering even in his dreams.

And so, you hug him tightly to sleep. Even after he does turn back to his former self.

Zayne:

You love trolling this kid.

“Yeah, you grew up to be the world’s greatest circus master,” you say with a perfectly straight face, flipping through an old album to a picture of his older self, his monkey brother clinging to his shoulder.

To your absolute delight, you walk into the living room one day to find little Zayne standing on a stool, waving a stick like a magician commanding the elements. His brows are furrowed, his lips pressed into a tight line, his tiny hands cutting through the air as if casting a powerful, world-altering spell.

Despite the devastation of not becoming a doctor, Zayne doesn’t seem entirely opposed to the idea of performing. He takes to it with a quiet, intense focus, folding napkins like they’re spell scrolls, lining up marbles like enchanted stones.

And he’s such a good kid, too. He helps you clean up after dinner, carefully setting the table by standing on a chair, each fork and spoon. You often find him perched on the counter, munching on apple slices, watching you cook with wide, attentive eyes.

But you notice things.

He’s too careful for a child. Always on guard, his small shoulders tight, his movements measured, as if afraid of brushing against something that might break. He pulls away from any touch, flinches when you reach for him too quickly.

And then one night, when he’s fast asleep, you notice the tiny, fading scars on his arms. Old, white lines, barely visible, but unmistakable. The kind that still mark his mark his arms as an adult.

It breaks your heart.

He’s not just afraid of the world, he’s afraid of himself, of his evol, of the power that lies dormant in his tiny, trembling hands. He knows, even now, that one wrong move, one slip of control, could hurt the people he cares about.

When he finally turns back, you make it a point to hug him a little tighter, to reach for his hand without hesitation, to ruffle his hair whenever he’s within arm’s reach. You pull him into half-hugs when he least expects it, sling your arm around his shoulders, and lean into him as if the years of self-restraint never happened.

And though he huffs and grumbles, you notice he never pulls away. Not anymore.

Sylus:

He flinches. A lot.

It breaks your heart. Someone made him this way, turned this fierce, proud dragon into a child who startles at shadows and stiffens at loud noises. You don’t know who hurt him, who made him so wary, but the thought twists your chest with a slow, simmering anger.

You have to be so gentle with him. Move slowly, speak softly, give him space to retreat when he needs it. You learn to read his small, hesitant steps, the way his eyes dart to the door when voices get too loud, the way he freezes at sudden movements.

He befriends Mephisto first. The little mechanical crow hops around his feet, clicking and chirping in its strange, metallic voice, and Sylus’s eyes brighten, just a bit. You watch them from the doorway, relieved that this version of him has at least made a friend, even if it’s a tiny, clockwork bird.

You watch them talk for hours, Sylus’s small hands carefully cradling the crow, his head tilted as he whispers to it in a voice too soft for you to hear. You don’t interrupt. You wouldn’t dare.

One afternoon, you find him peeking into his grown self’s closet, wide eyes reflecting the glimmer of polished cufflinks, the dark sheen of leather, the sharp edges of perfectly pressed suits.

“Mine?” he asks, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and disbelief.

You sink to the floor beside him, your heart aching as you hold up a pair of sapphire-studded cufflinks..

“Yes, darling,” you whisper, voice catching as he inches closer, his tiny fingers brushing the cool metal. “All yours.”

He looks at you then, his eyes wide and wet, and you feel something in your chest crack, the sharp, aching pressure of a dam breaking.

In the week you spend with little Sylus, you make it a point to create the warmth he seems to have never known. You cook diamond-shaped waffles for breakfast, topping them with strawberries and whipped cream, watching his eyes go wide with every bite. You sit around the dinner table, the twins leaning in to ruffle his hair, to tell him stories, to praise every brave word that slips from his lips.

You help him taste test every jar in his precious jam collection, each spoonful a hesitant experiment. His small face lights up at the burst of different flavors. He eats so little otherwise.

When the spell finally breaks, and he returns to his grown self, you don’t ask him. You don’t push. You don’t demand to know who hurt him, or what he was so afraid of as a child.

But one night, as you lie together in the darkness, his head resting on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck, he whispers it to you. He tells you of a past so tragic, so twisted in grief and betrayal, that by the end of it, you’re both sobbing softly, clinging to each other in the dark.

And when he finally falls silent, his breathing slow and even against your chest, you press a kiss to his hair and whisper, “You’re safe now. I promise.”

Caleb:

He is numb.

Worse than any chip.

Unlike any kid you’ve ever met.

He sits on the couch, knees drawn to his chest, staring blankly at the flickering TV. His eyes are hollow, his small hands limp in his lap, his breaths shallow and mechanical, as if his body has forgotten how to feel anything at all.

“Caleb,” you murmur, sinking down beside him. You reach out, your fingers carding gently through his dark, messy hair. “Please eat something.” You set a tray of cut fruit in front of him. He doesn’t even blink.

It’s only when you bring out the album that something flickers behind his eyes.

“Look,” you whisper, flipping through the worn, crinkled pages. “Both of us... we made it.”

His head turns slowly, his dark eyes focusing on the images, two kids, standing side by side with basket full of Halloween candy. With him dressed as a T-Rex and you as Pooh bear.

“It wasn’t easy,” you say, holding the book open so he can see, “and we got hurt, but we have our life. We’re happy.”

You feel his small fingers twitch, his gaze lingering on a faded, slightly torn photo of the two of you, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, chocolate stained cheeks.

You let him take it from your hands, his small fingers gripping the edges, the photo trembling slightly as he holds it close.

“You did good,” you whisper, gently patting his head.

For a long moment, his haunted eyes lock with yours, his small body trembling, caught between disbelief and desperate, aching hope. He doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to let the warmth in, doesn’t want to be swayed.

But he’s a kid.

And then, like a dam breaking, he lunges into your arms, clutching you tightly, his tiny frame shuddering against yours as the weight of it all crashes over him.

“You did so good,” you repeat, rocking him gently in your arms. “You were so brave, Caleb. I’m so proud of you.” You pat his small, shaking back, your own eyes stinging with tears, unable to bear his pain.

And for the first time in days, you feel him breathe.

When he returns to his old self, you make it a point to frame every single one of those photos. You hang them in the hallway, tuck them into his desk, slip them into his office drawers. You take so many more, catching him off guard, dragging him to photobooths, and fancy dress parties.

Because if that little Caleb ever returns to you, you want him to have more. More memories, more proof, more warmth. You want him to know, without a doubt, that he did make it. That he did good.