I Think That It's Really Important For People To Realize That Being Disabled Is Traumatic. Genuinely.

I liked your text on LADs and the heterosexual idealism but I wanted to add some interesting context to consider: This is from a western point of view I think. Otome games have existed for decades and have large fanbases in Japan and now China and Korea. These games were rarely published outside of their countries and when they were, were never advertised much so only a handful of western women participated and enjoyed this type of media. In the west, primarily in the states, games have been primarily targeted toward men and children and the ones that are made for women rarely have any effort put in them. So instead of flocking to games, women in the West have always flocked to books for their heterosexual idealism and, like most things women take interest in, is mostly ignored by men and the greater public until it undermines and "threatens" them.

So I don't think this is really a new thing, just that it's a widely advertised product with actual effort put in. And now more women are having their eyes opened to these possibilities.

As for the next step, LADs did announce a long time ago that they were going to have a VR version of the game. Pretty bare bones from what I saw, it was just like the home screen interactions so not a full game. As for bringing that into the physical world, it would likely be along the lines of the sex bot dolls that exist now for men. Or the Augmented Reality "waifus" that hang out on your desk and act as an Alexia. There's quite a bit of advancement for the heterosexual idealism for men but leans more sex based than emotion and affection based that we get from LADs.

Firstly, thank you! I appreciate your perspective on Otome games - I'm admittedly not that familiar with them, so I appreciate the additional cultural context.

And yeah, honestly I STRONGLY agree with your perspective on how romance novels were the more common method for women to engage with this content vs games - like you said, this isn't new per se, just a new medium (at least in the west) for women to explore this idea of Heterosexual Idealism.

Likewise, I think the AR content is definitely the logical next step - like, I think we'll probably see a sort of hybrid between AR/Alexa-esque companions/Replika-type stuff - I think VR just has, currently, too high of a barrier to entry for most people (and, obviously, robots are NOWHERE near being actually accessible to consumers).

It'll definitely be interesting to see how these developments that target women take hold, particularly given how a lot of stuff (like LADS) isn't *quite* as sex-based as content marketed to men is.

But yeah, thank you for your ask! I really enjoyed reading it :)

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"Hey, I can't sleep..."

Xavier mumbles something in reply, totally incoherent to you. He reaches for the lamp on the nightstand next to his side of the bed, and a warm glow fills the room. He yawns, and he sits up in bed, leaning against the headboard, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Okay, come here, then."

He pats his lap twice. You stare at him, and then at where he was patting.

"You want me to sit on you?"

He raises an eyebrow. "No. Come put your head here."

You oblige and lie down with your head in his lap. He reaches for something else on the nightstand - it's a book. He flips open to a page and clears his throat.

"Once upon a time–"

You can't help but laugh out loud, and you end up shaking the whole bed. Xavier clicks his tongue and shushes you.

"I'm trying to read you a bedtime story, if you don't mind."

"Okay, okay," you concede. "I'll be quiet. So quiet."

Xavier continues, putting on a storyteller voice. "There was a young girl whose mother had sadly died, and she lived with her father whom she loved dearly..."

He continues with the story of Cinderella, and you're enthralled by all the voices he puts on for the different characters. They sound ridiculous and ill-fitting, but you're entertained nonetheless. All the while, one of his hands is in your hair, gently brushing his fingers through it. The other holds the book, and in the moments where he takes the hand in your hair to flip a page, you instantly miss it - you would be happy for him to read a page over and over again if it meant keeping his hand right where it is. There are a couple of times where he yawns, and it's contagious - you yawn along with him.

"... and they all lived happily ever after. The end."

Xavier closes the book, but you turn over in his lap to look up at him. You push your bottom lip out in what you hope is a cute pout. "Can you read me another one, please?"

He rolls his eyes, but obliges, and opens the book again. He flips around for a little bit before clearing his throat again. "This is the story of Sleeping Beauty..."

You're not sure when it is that you doze off, but the next time you wake, sunlight is streaming through the gaps in the curtains. Your head is still in Xavier's lap, his hand still resting in your hair. The book he was holding is next to him on the bed, opened to a random page, and you can hear him snoring lightly. You turn, just a little bit, to take a look at him. His eyelids are twitching just so slightly, his mouth moving as if in conversation with someone in a dream. You feel a warmth spread across your chest, your heart beating just a little faster. Sleeping Beauty indeed.

"normalize not transitioning" yeah that's already so normal that conservatives are fighting for it to be mandatory. you're not helping. shuddup. normalize transitioning.

Getting on my minor political + mindful soapbox for the day to say that accelerationism is tempting - especially to those who are struggling with their mental health - because accelerationist ideals often borderline on, if not blatantly cross into, the suicidal and that's a deeply horrific and dangerous thing.

If you're finding yourself drawn to political philosophies that rely on the idea that things have to get worse before they get better - especially if they encourage martyrdom or don't really seem to have an idea of what the "get better" part looks like despite having a clear idea of what the "get worse" part looks like - check in with yourself. Are you doing okay? If you're in a position to - it'd probably be best to revisit the political thought after taking a moment to ground yourself.

Don't get sucked into political cult-like ideologies that prey on the mental health struggles of desperate marginalized people. We can do better.

meme ft my MC 🤓

Me with POTS making any food:

THIS IS NOT MINE.. REDNOTE: http://xhslink.com/a/297um5OmvpHbb •THE AUTHOR ALLOWED ME TO POST THIS.•

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.