The Onion Pulling Zero Fucking Punches.

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.

Who I think the LADS men are for

Rafayel is for

• the escapism girls

• the romantasy girls

• the “no, it’s not perfect yet” girls

• the “always the artist, never the muse” girls

• the “yeah, i believe in soulmates” girls

• the “i’m my own worst critic” girls

• the “maybe one day someone will appreciate everything i have to give” girls

Xavier is for

• the “i wish i could catch a break” girls

• the “i’m so tired, but i can’t stop” girls

• the “i’ll take a break when i’m finished” girls

• the “oh, i forgot to eat again” girls

• the “i’ll be okay, i’m used to this” girls

• the insomniacs and chronic illness girls

• the “i don’t want to be a burden” girls

Zayne is for

• the “heartbreak songs remind me more of my parents than my ex” girls

• the “you don’t know the violence it took to become this soft” girls

• the “i’ll wait until i’m in the shower to cry” girls

• the burned out gifted kid girls

• the “i’m smart, but not smart enough” girls

• the poetry girls

• the “i don’t understand why i’m not good enough” girls

Sylus is for

• the eldest/only daughter

• the “i can handle it myself” girls

• the “i don’t feel a sense of accomplishment, just a mild sense of relief that it’s done” girls

• the “mature for your age” girls

• the “i’m tired of taking care of myself” girls

• the “my worth comes from my accomplishments” girls

• the “i wish someone would take the reins so i don’t have to” girls

Caleb is for

• the “i had to grow up before i was ready” girls

• the “why are you so loud?” girls

• the “no, i’m okay, what’s going on with you?” girls

• the therapist friend girls

• the maladaptive daydreaming girls

• the “i wish someone cared as much as i do” girls

• the “i don’t think i can do this anymore” girls

nice version

being disabled will really have you thinking/saying things like “yeah i’m not really THAT disabled. as long as i take my meds twice a day (and as needed), eat and drink exactly the right things, keep the perfect balance of being active and resting, the weather is stable, and nothing unexpected happens AT ALL… i’m totally FINE! i probably should not even call myself disabled at this point because i’m doing so well!”

if you don’t want to call yourself disabled, that’s fine and it is your choice! but if you’re only “fine” or “doing really well” when a bunch of different variables are all lined up perfectly, then maybe you are not fine actually. just a thought!

Soft boy <3

TME and TMA as intersexist terms: as written by an intersex transfem

I’ve had a few different people in my inbox asking me why I view these terms the way I do. In particular, why I claim it’s intersexist. So, I thought I’d lay out a few examples, so everyone can understand where I’m coming from.

Imagine an intersex woman. She was assigned female at birth by her doctors, and was able to go about her childhood as a woman with no inclination that anything was amiss. Sure, she didn’t experience certain parts of puberty, but puberty was different for everyone, right?

But, later in life, she learns she has Turner syndrome. This is an intersex condition where a woman has only one X chromosome, rather than the usual two.

Soon after she learns this, she finds that laws are being made to attempt to keep trans women out of women’s spaces (often specifically sports) which use chromosomes as a defining factor of womanhood.

Would this intersex person be considered “transmisogyny affected”? She has been raised as a cisgender woman with no problems regarding being ‘clocked’, but she is also a direct target of transmisogynistic laws. She lies in a gray area.

Now, let’s go to another intersex person. Imagine an intersex man with PAIS. AIS is an intersex condition where babies are born with testes and XY chromosomes, but their body is immune to or can’t respond to androgens (which includes testosterone). Intersex people with partial AIS (PAIS) often develop a vulva and clitoris during puberty.

This intersex person identifies as a man, and he was assigned male at birth. However, his body does not produce testosterone, and he went through a feminizing puberty. To the average eye, he appears to be a woman now because of this.

Would this intersex person be considered “transmisogyny affected?” He was assigned male at birth, and now appears to be a woman, much like many transfems. However, if many saw how he looks now, stating that he is a male, they would probably clock him as transmasc. He was raised as a boy until puberty, and then faced astrozcization from his peers when he began a puberty that feminized him. What he was facing was a form of intersexism where transmisogyny was playing a huge part. Does his childhood matter? Can one become TME over time, when they were TMA as a child? Again, he lies in a gray area, where the answer is not quite so simple.

What about the “opposite”, per se — an intersex woman who had a masculinizing puberty? She has aromatase deficiency, which means that many ‘male’ hormones (which would usually be converted to ‘female’ hormones) would remain unconverted. She identifies as a woman, and was identified as a female at birth and was raised, until puberty, as a female. But now, she would be clocked as a trans woman upon looking at her. What does that make her? Is it different from the previous example? How and why? This intersex person also lies in a gray area. How she should be described with these terms is not clear.

And keep in mind, these are all relatively simple examples. All of the examples I listed self-identify as cisgender. But there are intersex people who are trans in any direction you can imagine.

If that last example identified as a trans woman, because she is now clocked as one, would you be able to say she’s wrong for that? What about if she identified as transmasculine, because of her experience with puberty? What if she’s multigender, bigender or genderfluid, and says she’s both transmasc and transfem because of her complicated experiences? Would that make her a TMA transmasculine person? But I thought that transmascs were all TME? That’s how it’s so often framed, anyway.

The reason why these questions are so difficult to answer is because these terms were not made with intersex people in mind. Very real intersex transfems were pushed to the wayside in favor of centering the perisex view of transgenderism. Intersex people are nothing but an inconvenient little afterthought, annoying perisex people with their demand for “inclusion” and “consideration”. (As per usual.)

You cannot simply make a new gender binary and say, “No, really, this time everyone fits into these two categories! Forcing people to confine themselves to these two rigid labels which are shown as opposites, and as never interacting, will definitely include everyone this time!!” No matter what the contents of the new binary is, it’s not going to work, because sex and gender alike are too complicated for that. There will always be people in the gray area.

This isn’t even getting into the fact that these terms, for all intents and purposes, seem to have been popularized by and associated with the Baeddelism movement around 2017, which was essentially “Radical Feminism 2: We’re Trans Women, So It’s Fine!” This movement is known for chronic villainization of trans men and non-binary people who aren’t transfem. (They act like this with cis people too, but noticeably less so than they do with non-transfem trans people. How curious.) Think along the lines of how regular radfems treat all men (and who they deem to be men) as inherently morally disgusting scum who deserve to be attacked.

Methinks that maybe these terms aren’t the neutral, fact-based descriptors of oppression that many people nowadays tout them to be, considering that.

So, yeah. “Transmisogyny exempt” and “transmisogyny affected” as terms: not even once. Listen to intersex people, stop trying to make sex and gender into binaries, and for the love of God, stop drinking the queer seperationist koolaid!

I wish that, instead of reacting angrily or feeling attacked by the love many women feel for Love and Deepspace, some men would adopt a more open attitude and use the lessons this game offers to improve the way they treat their partners and women in general.

Love and Deepspace is designed to make us feel loved and to convey what love should feel like. For me (and I know for many others), it has taught me to understand what I truly desire in a relationship and how I want to be treated. Love interests are designed to make us feel valued, prioritized, and deeply loved. They are attentive, respectful, and caring, showing their love without coercion or demands, putting us first, and the evolution of the relationship and its intimacy is built on trust and mutual respect.

Even mechanics like the menstrual cycle representation, which has been criticized so much, are a reflection of the care and empathy that should exist in a healthy relationship. Understanding your partner's stage of the cycle not only allows you to support them more sensitively, but also to show meaningful support during phases like the luteal phase or menstruation itself.

This game isn't about sex or pornography, as many people think, but about love, respect, and genuine affection. It teaches us what true love feels like, what a healthy relationship should be like, and what it means to be authentically loved. There's nothing wrong with this, nor should those of us who enjoy this experience feel ashamed.

Please, for the love of god, leave me CLEAR INSTRUCTIONS!!! If you think it’s implied, I promise you that to me it is not. If you give me poorly worded or vague directions I’m gonna spend half an hour stressing over the potential different ways to interpret them and either become paralyzed with indecision or inevitably interpret them the least correct way possible

How about Xavier's version of br33ding k1nk? 👉🏻👈🏻

You'd never seen Xavier like this.

Usually so composed—every word deliberate, every move practiced elegance. But right now, his breath was ragged against your neck, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks, and his hips grinding against yours like he needed you.

“First time,” he rasped, his voice velvet over steel. “And you’re already asking me to come inside you?”

You nodded, breath hitching, your body trembling beneath him. “Please…”

He groaned, dragging his teeth along your jaw. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

His cock was pressed between your soaked folds, teasing—taunting—as he kissed down your throat. Every nerve in your body buzzed with anticipation.

“Say it again,” he demanded, low and rough. “Look at me when you say it.”

Your eyes met his—burning, intense—and you whispered, “I want you to come inside me. I want you to fill me up.”

Something in him snapped.

He lined himself up and pushed in slowly, torturously, watching your face the whole time. Your tight, untouched walls clung to him, and the moment he bottomed out, he let out a sharp, broken breath.

“Fuck,” he growled. “You’re so tight, so perfect—this virgin pussy gripping me like it was made for it.”

You whimpered beneath him, overwhelmed—stretched, full, utterly consumed.

He didn’t move at first. Just looked at you. Like he was committing this moment to memory.

Then he started to thrust—deep, steady strokes that dragged along every sensitive spot inside you.

“You were made for this,” he murmured into your ear. “Made to take me. To be filled. You want me to come inside this sweet little pussy? Want me to stuff you full?”

Your hands clawed at his back, desperate. “Yes—please, Xavier, I want it—”

He fucked you harder then, each thrust claiming, filthy, possessive.

“That’s it,” he panted. “Beg me. Beg me to breed you.”

You were moaning now, near tears, pleasure building too fast, too much.

“Please—come inside me, Xavier—I want it so bad—want you to fill me up—want to feel it leaking out—”

His rhythm stuttered, hands gripping your hips hard as he pushed in deep and stayed there.

“Take it,” he groaned. “Take every drop, sweetheart.”

And then you felt it—hot, spilling deep inside you, pulse after pulse as he cursed into your skin, hips twitching with every wave of release.

Even as he finished, he didn’t pull out. Just kept grinding slowly, making sure you felt every second of it.

“Not done,” he murmured against your lips, voice still thick with heat. “You’re mine now. I’ll fuck you again. And again. Until I’m dripping out of you every time you walk.”

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.

my literal DREAM oml 🤭

PAIRINGS. . . xavier x lumiere x fem!reader

CW. . . smut, threesome, rough sex, jealous!xavier, oral sex m! receiving

your back arched against xavier’s chest, your thighs shaking from how deep lumiere was pushing into you—slow, relentless strokes that left you whining with every thrust. you were sandwiched between them, xavier’s arms tight around your waist, keeping you still while his lips dragged lazy, heated kisses across your neck, tasting the sweat at your pulse.

lumiere's hands were on your hips, bruising, possessive in a way that made xavier growl low against your ear. jealous, even though he was the one who had said he could "handle sharing." sharing, he said. but now, with you gasping and squirming under lumiere's rhythm, xavier's patience was paper-thin.

"greedy little thing," xavier muttered into your skin, his voice dripping heat, teeth scraping along your jaw. his hand slid up your body, cupping your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple while his other hand drifted down between your thighs to where you were stretched and dripping around lumiere.

he rubbed tight circles on your nub that had you moaning brokenly into the open air, caught between their bodies and losing your mind.

you could feel xavier’s cock pressed hard against your back, twitching with every noise you made, every time lumiere bottomed out inside you with a heavy, deliberate thrust.

lumiere’s eyes stayed locked on you, heavy-lidded and dark, watching every twitch of your mouth, every flutter of your lashes. watching xavier too. knowing exactly how much it was driving him insane.

it was too much. not enough.

you whimpered, nails digging into lumiere's arms, and xavier bit your ear. "you want more?" he asked, voice gravel and silk. "say it."

you could barely breathe, let alone form words, but you nodded, desperate and wrecked.

lumiere smirked, slowing his thrusts to a maddening, shallow grind, while xavier pulled you back against him, shifting you both until you were spread open, straddling lumiere’s thighs. xavier’s hand wrapped around your jaw, tilting your head back to meet his kiss—messy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and desperate need.

and then he changed positions.

you barely registered it before he was guiding you forward, hands spreading your ass, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance while lumiere’s hands stroked up your sides, steadying you.

you gasped into lumiere’s chest as xavier pushed inside from behind—slow, deep, so full you thought you might split apart.

two cocks, two bodies, pressing you from every side, stretching you out so perfectly you could barely think.

lumiere cupped your face, thumbing your lips open, guiding you down to take him into your mouth. his cock was flushed and leaking, and you moaned around him as you sucked, messy and desperate, while xavier fucked into you from behind—hard, deep strokes that had your whole body jolting forward.

the noises were obscene—wet, needy, beautiful. your moans were muffled by lumiere, his hips barely flexing as you took him deeper, while xavier's hands bruised your hips, dragging you back onto him over and over.

you were wrecked between them, pleasure thick and overwhelming, your body slick with sweat and spit and need.

xavier fucked you like he had something to prove, like he could fuck out every trace of lumiere inside you, his teeth gritted, low curses falling from his lips.

lumiere just watched, lazy and amused and utterly indulgent, petting your hair while you gagged and drooled around his cock, his thumb brushing your cheek like he adored seeing you so undone.

xavier's thrusts grew rougher, angrier, pulling you back against him with brutal force, making you sob around lumiere’s cock, body jerking with every thrust.

you felt yourself breaking apart at the seams, the pressure unbearable, perfect, a firestorm about to consume you whole.

and in the center of it all they ruined you, together.

masterlist ⋆˚꩜ send me a kofi !