It Is So Fucking Exhausting And Annoying How White Women, Including And Maybe Even Especially In Progressive

Queer 👏 people 👏 are 👏 not 👏 all 👏 fucking 👏 activists 👏

Stop quizzing us on queer history and asking us questions we aren’t qualified to answer about the world and about politics and about our identities

Stop trying to back us into a corner so you can justify your discrimination on the basis that we don’t know what we’re talking about or can’t “defend” ourselves to you

Stop treating every queer person that stands up and says “I want to be treated like a person” as if they’re an activist

Cut that bullshit out

Marginalised people just want to exist and be happy

I don’t know everything, and that doesn’t make me undeserving of your respect or my human rights you fucker

I don’t even owe you the stuff I do know- I still am entitled to basic fucking respect

TLDR; Queer people shouldn’t have to be historians or scientists for you to not be a fucking dick

I want my gay rights now! - Marsha P. Johnson (NYC Pride Parade, 1973)

How LADS men say “sorry”

Sylus’ black card works, but I’d settle with Xavier’s for now.

permission to post from: keiyaa.aa on tiktok!

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.

hello faggot on tumblr dot com

you know who you are

my babyyyy! 😣 look at him sulking and pouting😭🤍

full credit to artist: @fishbone0306 on X!

i really look forward to when we separate androgyny and gender non-conformance from thinness

androgyny does not have to be thin, white, and eurocentrically attractive

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.

Autistic Traits I Struggle to Describe to Non-Autistic People

Neurodivergent_lou

Xavier deserves more love.

There! I said it!

The man has loved mc for three life times now, made a deal with the devil (Ever), traveled across time and space, moved planets, lived on Earth for a few hundred years to save / find her, and prevent catastrophe from happening to her, fuck even saving her as Lumiere when she was young.

She is the only one that sees him as himself. As Xavier.

He is kind, and comfortable, and selfless. He deals with immense survivors guilt and loves so deeply.

We talk about Rafayel and Caleb being the yearners and clingers. But have you seen Xavier? He is clingy as fuck, and wants nothing but her. Nothing.

Some fun things I love about him, he has one of the biggest appetites but cannot cook for shit. He is unironically hilarious, when he starts telling his little horror stories or ghost stories trying to scare MC, it’s so funny.

I feel like he gets overlooked so often, partially because he’s not as showy as the rest of LIs. I’m sure some might see him as boring, but he is safe. His relationship with MC is one of closest she has, aside from Caleb. They’re neighbours, and colleagues, and best friends. He is deeply ingrained in her life, and a foundational pilar of support for her.

Put some respect on his name.