This Video Has Been Going Around For A While But The English Subtitles Didn't Match The Energy Of The

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Note: Creds to @/fawndollie for the star divider. ♡

Rating: Explicit - !!Minors DO NOT Interact!!

Warning: Oral (Fem!Receiving), Handjob (M!Receiving)

Word Count: 2,041

Summary: Xavier comes back home a little tipsy for the first time ever and he just can’t stop loving on you because he missed you so much.

Tipsy!Xavier/Reader

Xavier didn’t mean to come home inebriated. Now granted, he wasn’t too bad. He wasn’t stumbling all over the place and unable to stand upright, but he’s never got like this before, so it was an unusual thing to navigate. Being in complete control of himself has always been important to your homebody boyfriend.

His cheeks puff as he blows out a breath, trying to open the door to your shared apartment. It takes him two tries before the key successfully connects to the key hole and he twists it to the left to disengage the lock. That alone makes him even more thankful for one of his coworkers driving him home or else he’d be sitting at a bus stop like this.

He had listened to you and went out with a few colleagues from work. How could he not when you so sweetly said, “I think going out would be good for you, lovebug. You’re in the house so much.”

The only time Xavier left was to go to work, go grocery shopping, and to hang out with you to do whatever you wanted. If you left it up to him, because he liked you more than anyone else on this planet, he had absolutely no problem with you being the only person he’s around.

So admittedly, he was hesitant at first. He didn’t want to leave you home alone because not only did he not like being where you weren’t at all times if he can help it, he’d miss a crucial part of the daily routine you and he shared.

After work, you were always home to greet him. You would run over to him and kiss his lips and nose, before returning to the stove to finish preparing dinner. That small interaction was one of his favorites between you two amongst the handful of ones he looked forward to throughout the day. Today though, because he wanted to make you proud of him for his attempt to “broaden his horizons”, he got none of that.

He missed you the whole time while he sat down with his peers for dinner. Each time he took a bite of the food, he’d frown because although it wasn’t nasty, it wasn’t your cooking. Every time someone started talking, he was respectful enough to listen and engage, but nothing would ever quite compare to how much he loved hearing you tell him about your day.

You were on his mind so much that he had wished he would’ve just stayed home. But he stuck it out, and was here now. All he wanted to do was crawl all over you so that you could hold him tight and kiss him for hours to make up for your time apart.

As the door pushed open, he hummed in content and smiled to himself at the smell of your favorite oat and honey scented candle lingering in the air, welcoming him back to where he always wants to be. The warm apartment was a perfect contrast to the frigid temperatures outside and the small star lamp that you had bought a few weeks ago illuminated his path just enough for him to find his way to you.

He kicked his sneakers off at the door, locking it after and washing his hands before he went on his search. Xavier was a man of routine, even with a fuzzy mind because of the few fruity alcoholic beverages he consumed.

He gently tiptoed down the hallway just in case you were sleeping and he wondered if he was selfish for hoping that you weren’t. It wasn’t exactly late, only 10:30, but you had times where you couldn’t keep your eyes open and he’d have to gently pull your phone or a book from your limp hands so that you could rest properly after you had passed out.

He pushes the cracked door open and immediate relief almost sobers the man when he finds you with your back turned but your phone is in your hand, screen dimmed as you scroll through random posts online.

“Hey,” he greets softly, his voice rumbling as he trudges inside. You crane your neck to the right to see him, beaming a smile as he starts to remove his clothes to climb into bed. He wants to shower, but he wants you more.

“How was dinner?” you ask as you turn your body to the other side so that you can face him properly. The gentle gleam of fairy lights he helped you put up awhile ago illuminate your soft face.

He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it into the laundry basket before he begins unbuckling his jeans.

“It was fine. I couldn’t quite focus, if I’m being honest. Now I feel a little… off.”

“Oh?” you raise a brow, propping your head on your knuckles. “What happened?”

“You,” he says simply, making your eyes widen, but that makes him smirk.

“Me? What did I do?” The wide eyes you sport makes him breathe out a chuckle.

He stops fumbling with the button of his pants, looking into your eyes. “It’s hard to hold conversations when all I could do what think about you,” he sighs as you quirk a brow, raising it with a knowing smile. “I wondered what you were doing, if you ate, what you ate, if you missed me just as much. It was to the point that I saw this mango drink and I figured, she’d love something like that. That’s what made me try it,” he presses his lips together as you wait patiently for him to finish. “I drank about four before I finally realized that it had—”

“Alcohol in it?” you finish for him. You knew your boyfriend all too well. He’s done this before—sees things that reminds him of you and will fully commit to giving it a go, not ever paying attention to what it’s all about and just takes it for face value. He just loves you so much.

He nods and you really notice his slightly flushed cheeks. “So you’re tipsy and that’s why you feel off?”

“You’re half right.” Before you can try and figure out what he’s talking about, he charges at you, making you yelp in surprise.

He’s quick, climbing into the bed and over you, burying his face in your neck and tickling your skin. The kisses make you laugh so hard that your cheeks start to ache from how hard you’re grinning.

“Xav, what are you doing?!” you exclaimed through a squeal as his hands come up under your shirt to grab at your sides.

“Is this my shirt?” he looks down at the light blue t-shirt from a band he’s never listened to before, breathless after his playful onslaught.

“Duh, you were gone and I missed you.” You brush his bangs out of his pretty eyes.

“I missed you. So much,” he kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Babe, you did not go off to war,” you laugh. “I think the alcohol is making you clingy.”

“Clingy?” he challenges. But he accepts defeat when your hand cups his face and he melts into your touch. “You may be right. Being away from you for more than half a day is not something I’ll do again.” He turns his head to kiss your palm then down your wrist.

After you and Xavier moved in together, being with you, around you, was the only thing that he wanted.

“You’re so dramatic.” You roll your eyes jokingly.

“Maybe.” He licks your skin gently. “But I’m also in love with you. Will you let me show you how much?” He leans back down into your neck to kiss you more, but it’s less playful this time. It’s not playful at all, in fact. It’s hot and wanting.

You trace his back muscles, feeling them shift and move against your palm as you spread your legs to let him press deeper.

“You’re drunk, Xav.” Your attempt to protest is hindered by a desperate whimper as he starts to kiss down to your collarbone.

“Tipsy,” he corrects. “Loving you will make it go away. You always know how to fix me.”

He pulls back to crash his lips into you and you lick at them, tasting the residue of the drink.

“Mm, you’re good,” you lick him again. “I do like it.”

He smiles lazily, kissing down your body as your back arches. Lifting the shirt, he kisses down your plush stomach, never stopping despite how you writhe so impatiently beneath his wet lips.

He simultaneously pulls your panties down the lower he gets, pulling them off your legs. He tosses them aimlessly in the room, making himself comfortable in front of your pussy. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t make you or him wait any longer as he sucks you into his mouth.

“I love you so much,” he mumbles into your cunt. “Don’t make me have to leave you anymore. I prefer being right here.”

His tongue laps up your sweetness as he takes it and brings what he deems ambrosia to your clit. Your hand fondles your breast through your shirt as he inserts a finger inside you warm walls, groaning at how tightly you squeeze around his digits while taking your bundle of nerves into his mouth. Your thighs squeeze the sides of his head and Xavier uses his other hand to make sure you don’t stop, pressing against the outside of your thigh to keep him locked in his happy place.

“You—Oh, shit.. Xav, your tongue..” You can’t complete your sentence as his nose brushes against your sensitive nerves while he tongue fucks your hole. You’re sweeter than that drink that’s admittedly made him feel needier than usual, sweeter than any century old wine.

Just as you get ready to come, he climbs back up and devours your mouth again. Between your taste and the mango on his tongue, you’re bucking your hips in desperation to feel him in any way you can. His hand comes down to start rubbing your clit in slow circles. He knows how much you like when he rubs you slow. Going too fast makes the pleasure cease too quickly.

“You’re so pretty,” he mewls. “So, so pretty.”

At the same time, you reach into his jeans and past his underwear, wrapping your hand around his length. He’s so hard and sensitive that it takes only a few pumps for him to start whining, breathing deeply into your mouth as he chases his high that’s closer than he’d wish.

He circles your clit in time with how you jerk him off, but when your thumb rubs over his slit, his body abruptly jerks as thick ropes of cum shoot from his cock, staining the fabric and making a mess on your hand. He moans so loudly and you thank the universe for blessing you with such a beautiful and vocal man.

You don’t stop, tugging on his overly sensitive cock until you feel that tightness coil in your stomach.

“Give it to me,” he whispers as he presses his forehead against yours. A few more rubs has you creaming, your clit pulsing beneath the pads of his fingers as your orgasm rocks your body.

“Good girl,” he smiles against your lips as he kisses you slow, feeling the mess of his cum spread as your movements slow.

He removes his hand, cupping your face and rubbing his thumb against your lower lip. You pull your hand from his pants, looking into his still lustful eyes as you lick his cum off your knuckles.

“Oh god,” he shudders. “Yeah, I’m never going out again. Not when I have someone as perfect as you here.”

The corner of your mouth tilts up. “I think that’s a good idea. But we should clean up and get your tipsy ass to bed.”

He laughs deeply this time, his body shaking. It’s so contagions that you can’t help yourself and do the same.

He kisses your nose like you always do to him when he settles, admiring the connection you two share that’s changed his life so wondrously.

“We definitely should, so long as you’re doing it right beside me.”

Angy 👿

as a knitter, you start to notice how rare it is for characters in tv shows and movies to knit correctly. from worst to best, it ranges from:

- laughably incorrect, just flinging yarn around

- knitting the most basic scarf incredibly slowly because the actor Learned How To Do It For The Role

- old lady actresses casually knitting an intricate lace pattern while doing a monologue

- gromit from wallace and gromit

Can we fucking talk about this?

I may sound really bad when I say this but it pisses me off to no end that we can’t have this game without men crying for a male mc option or trying to erase the MC. Like no??? This game isn’t for you. The creators made it FOR AFAB PEOPLE specifically. We don’t have shit like that.

It’s always inclusivity this, inclusivity that.

There is PLENTY of BL and other games dedicated to people who enjoy that type of content. Go play it, go read it.

I used to like yaoi. I preferred it over hetero at one point but like there’s liking and then there is projecting in places and insisting everyone else get behind it. You just don’t fucking do that??

Is it really SO BAD that AFAB have something for themselves? Do you have to belittle us and erase us so badly that we just have no spaces for ourselves?

And then saying they’d have better chemistry with another man. 😭 Have you heard the secret times? Have you read the stories or the cards? They are absolutely infatuated with the female body (and I know I used female here I’m sorry but that’s what mc is portrayed as in game.)

It’s not a contest. You can like them, headcanon them with another man. You can do whatever because they’re fictional just STOP ERASING WOMEN. We are allowed to exist in media.

I’m sorry for anyone reading this. I can’t articulate this the way I want to. It just makes me so mad that we deal with so much misogynistic bullshit and can’t have anything. I don’t go around trying to assert myself in spaces that weren’t made for me and I can’t understand why this isn’t an understood concept.

Me with POTS making any food:

Study Date ❤️

nightlight.

xavier [沈星回] + female reader

synopsis. you have a wet dream.

genre & contents. 18+! MDNI! pure smut, porn no plot…, threesome (lol), oral (receiving + giving), p in v, established relationship. wc; 1.2k+

author's note. um… i don't even know how to explain this one. the idea just popped into my mind and i had to write it before i exploded. enjoy <3

Gloved hands caress your inner thigh slowly.

Your eyes flutter, a soft sigh escaping your bitten lips. His fingers hook onto the waistband of your sleep shorts, pulling them down in one swift motion. Your back arches off the bed, feeling his breath dangerously close to your wetness.

“I’ve barely touched you, angel,” he moans softly, hiking your legs over his shoulders. The white jacket he wears is cold against your warm skin. You can’t find the words to speak, only gasping in response when he pulls your panties to the side.

His hands grip your thighs; a tender, slow flick of his tongue that makes you thrust your hips up, entirely too impatient with his lack of urgency. He chuckles lowly at your shameless need. Another agonizing swipe of his tongue, and your hands come up to grip his silver hair.

“Nnngh— s-stop teasing m-me.” you plead, looking at his blue eyes, adorned by an ornate mask. His eyes glimmer with the moonlight seeping through your bedroom window.

“But I like hearing you beg for me.” he whispers, and you can feel every word against your dripping cunt. You sigh, making your frustration known. But you sense it only serves to indulge him.

“P-please,” you implore once again, this time his fingers coming up to toy with you.

“Mmm,” his gaze is heavy, admiring the sight before him. “Okay, angel. You know I can’t resist you.”

He steadies you, lapping at your dripping folds like a man starved. You’re writhing, moaning and pulling at his strands. He’s relentless, holding you down in place as he guides you towards your sweet release. You’re close, so close—

“Y/N?”

You still, turning towards your bedroom door where the sound of your boyfriend’s voice was heard. Your eyes widen, choking on your words.

“X-xavier?!” you gasp, coming up onto your elbows. You stare at him in disbelief, turning back to the man in between your legs. How… how could it be…?

Xavier walks towards the bed, hand coming to hold the back of your head. His face is inches away, pink lips tempting you. He’s completely covering your vision, but a small kiss to your thigh reminds you of the other him.  

Lumiere.

“So greedy,” Xavier whispers, pulling your head back. “You really need two of me?”

“I…” The words die on your tongue as the man below you hits a particular spot with his tongue.

“I can please you just fine.”

Xavier’s eyes darken, jaw clenching. He pulls you in, lips crashing against yours in a fervorous kiss. You moan, melting into his touch. It’s easy to lose yourself with him; you don’t even notice the absence between your legs until another hand grabs your jaw.

You barely have time to register what’s happening, Lumiere’s lips replacing Xavier’s. You wonder how they could feel the same but be so different. His kiss is rougher, messy and wet. He’s more controlling, guiding your tongue with his own. 

Xavier growls behind you, climbing over you and wrapping your legs around his hips. He grinds into you, his hard cock barely contained by his sweatpants. You moan into Lumiere’s mouth.

“Over here, angel.” 

You pull away, a string of saliva falling from your lips as you turn to look at your boyfriend. Beside you, there’s a dark chuckle. What the hell was happening? You were too turned on to question it further. 

Xavier revels in your redirected attention, pulling his sweatpants down. His cock slaps his skin, red and throbbing for you. You bite your lip, unconsciously spreading your legs wider. Your dripping cunt is ready for him, but you're pulled away before you can feel him inside.

You squeak at the sudden movement, Lumiere’s strong arms pulling your head to the edge of the bed. He stands over you, a slight smirk on his face as he pulls his own pulsing length free. Your eyes widen, mouth falling slightly agape.

“I want my fun, too.” He brings his tip to your lips, and you part them without question.

Below, Xavier grabs your legs once again, spreading you open and teasing your pussy with his tip. You moan, and Lumiere takes it as an opportunity to bury his cock deeper into your mouth. A light slap against your thigh, a reminder of where to keep your attention.

“Mmmmph!” 

Xavier pushes into you slowly, inch by inch. The stretch makes you arch your back, moaning sweetly against the cock in your mouth.

“Fuck, angel,” Xavier groans once he’s fully inside. You tighten around him. “It’s like you were made for me.”

Then they pull their hips back, slamming back into your gaping holes. Moaning and whining with every brush against your throat, every stretch of your walls. You’re turned into a mess under their unabated pounding. 

Drool is dripping out of your mouth, Lumiere’s cock hitting the back of your throat with every stroke. Tears pool in your eyes, but you don’t pull away, his low groans encouraging you to take him even deeper.

Xavier holds you in place, nails digging into the sides of your thighs as he slides in and out of you. He’s whining, your tight walls coaxing him back every time he pulls away. You’re being completely defiled by them, but you don’t want them to stop.

Their thrusts are sloppy now, a sign they were close. And so were you.

“Hey!”

You ignore the little voice, trying to focus on the coil tightening in your belly. Xavier feels good, so good inside of you. 

“Hey!”

The voice is persistent, and suddenly you find your mouth empty. Lumiere nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, wake up!”

You groan, squirming away from the hands shaking your body. Flipping over, you yelp, falling over the edge of the bed.

“Ow!”

You rub your shoulder, opening your eyes to see that you’re no longer in your bedroom. Instead, it’s your boyfriends. The blue moonlight is gone, replaced by sunlight peeking through the white curtains. Sitting up, you look around, only to find Xavier looking at you with concern.

He’s on the bed, sheets pulled over his waist. Definitely not the boyfriend that was fucking you stupid.

“You okay?” he asks, voice laced with sleep. 

“Uh… what happened?” your voice is raspy. You stand to grab the glass of water by your bedside table, chugging it like it was the only water left on earth.

All you can do is nod and swallow, suddenly very aware of the wetness sticking to your underwear.

“I think you were having a nightmare. You kept mumbling my name in your sleep.” he pouts, tapping the space next to him.

You give in, crawling back into bed and into his warm embrace. Xavier caresses your cheek gently, and you can’t help the way your face heats at the lingering memory of your dream. 

“What was it about?” 

You nuzzle your head in his chest, unable to face him directly. He places a barely there kiss on the crown of your head.

“I don’t… I don’t even remember.” you lie, but he doesn’t press further. Soon his breathing slows, and he’s asleep once again.

You close your eyes, willing your mind to go back to that beautiful moonlit room with Xavier.

And Lumiere, of course.

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.

everyone claims to be an ally to the disabled community until

- it’s a high support needs autistic

- the symptoms can’t be romanticized and are gross

- someone else’s disability starts to affect their life

- it’s a condition that cannot be cured

- someone is intellectually disabled

- someone is female and disabled

- someone is queer and disabled or black/POC and disabled

- someone is a minor and disabled

- ambulatory wheelchair users exist

- part time mobility aid users exist

- the “hellen keller wasn’t real” discussion

- they’re called out on their ableism

- someone is semiverbal/nonverbal

- someone doesn’t understand boundaries or the law

- someone has a deaf accent

- someone misses a lot of school or doesn’t go to school

- someone doesn’t want their disease/disorder cured

- someone does want their disease/disorder cured

- age regression

- having to mask for someone’s genuine safety

- actually needing to listen to disabled people’s opinions instead of immediately forming their own

- not infantilizing disabled people

- when a disabled person struggles with hygiene

- they see a “useless” disability aid

- they don’t agree with a disabled persons lifestyle or opinions

- until they have to put in work to be an advocate and a real ally to the disabled community.

everyone is a disability ally until things get hard.