Ew I Hate Bariometric Pressure

you know, another thing that fascinates me about LADS is how which LI(s) a player chooses is reflective of personal preferences? like, i recognise that that is pretty ‘obvious’ - sure, obviously, the LI(s) players choose are going to, to some degree, embody what a player likes; but it’s interesting to stop and self-reflect on what that says about oneself on a deeper level?

using myself as an example, i’m very much a Xavier girl; and, sure, on the surface level, it’s just a “the heart wants what the heart wants” situation - but it’s honestly quite…revealing? to actually sit with and discern the ‘why’ behind what draws me to him. while on a surface level, it can be summarised as a ‘he’s my type’ kind of thing, but i think stopping and thinking about why he’s my type - like, what that says about me and what i, consciously or not, look for - is a fascinating thought experiment?

personally, i think it speaks to a sense of ‘reliability?’ like, to me, a chronic overworker, xavier seems to embody a sense of rest, a sense of being the type of person you could depend on, someone who you could ‘turn off your brain’ around because you can rely upon them. and i think that that speaks to something on a deeper level - i think that that type of need often manifests in women like myself, people who are used to having to be self-reliant, to having to be the ones who ‘do it all.’

i think that need is a very common manifestation of the burden that comes with that level of self-reliance; of retreating into, or simply just daydreaming about, having a partner who can be that, of someone who’s not only capable, but willing - interested - in taking care of you - and i think that that often does begin and evolve out of that fantasy. very often, this desire is born out of previous experiences where such a need hasn’t been met, which results in then having to shoulder the burden of being the only person who takes care of yourself - which is not only physically taxing, but also emotionally taxing; it evokes this sense of “i take care of everyone, but who takes care of me?”

and i think that that’s one of the things that i love about the LADS community; it’s really interesting seeing these open conversations around why other players choose the LI(s) they do. particularly, i love getting to be exposed to these discussions around LI(s) that i specifically feel no strong draw to - it’s actually quite cool seeing why someone might be a caleb girl (as he’s basically the opposite of my type lol) and have that additional perspective. especially because the logic is often quite similar? like, the very things that draw me to xavier could be nearly identical to what draws someone to caleb, or sylus, or zayne, or rafayel - and it’s really interesting hearing about how that manifests in people.

next door by ASTN and Amelia Moore 🚪 ☆ ★

I'm in love with the boy next door. With the boy next door. With the boy next door. I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love with the boy next door.

I think my biggest ego boost as a femme is making a butch readjust their pants. Like...what's the matter handsome? Did looking at me/thinking about me make your dick hard?

Maybe we should do something about that then.

Study Date ❤️

(if microlabels. contradictory labels, xenogender, etc. are something you have issue with, then dni please)

my hot take is that i side-eye this whole intellectualisation of queerness sometimes. like, i'm all for discussing and critically examining our identities (bc oh boy wouldn't it be ironic if i wasn't), but i just get the ick with how often we'll explain an identity with a paragraph of text behind it

like, okay, take for example the current discourse around the whole afab transfem/amab transmasc stuff; while, sure, i think explaining *why* someone might feel like that label represents them is helpful, i also feel like we shouldn't *have* to

like, if someone wants to call themselves something, then they can. i do not think there should be an expectation to explain, justify, or defend their reason; the sentence "i feel that this label genuinely represents how i feel" is sufficient

i suppose the reason it bothers me is that i see it disproportionately directed towards people who use microlabels or contradictory labels, and it often tends to imply that the use of such label is not enough, that it must be proven 'legitimate' before it can be accepted

idk, i haven't fully sifted through my thoughts on this (and obv there is a lot of nuance i'm skipping over here), it's just something i've been clocking lately

hi:3 can you write one with xavier and reader where she's dressed like a bunny

𝐵𝓇𝑜𝒶𝒹𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝐵𝓊𝓃𝓃𝓎

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: 𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐂 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐚 𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐏𝐞𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲, 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐤!𝐧𝐤, 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞, 𝐬𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐤!𝐧𝐤 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐭.

She didn’t know how the silver haired man convinced her to wear this. Her tits were so pushed up she could feel them against her throat. Maybe that was her imagination. The floppy, fluffy white ears perched on top of her hair. Two thin pieces of fabric were the only thing covering her breast from being fully exposed.

This is what she got for even mentioning the thought of lingerie to Xavier.

But alas, here she was in his bathroom, giving herself a once over. She kept tugging at the bottom of the incredibly short skirt like a nervous habit. Well, she wasn’t getting any younger.

She opened the door slowly, poking just her head out to see Xavier waiting patiently on the edge of the bed.

“I feel silly.”

“Starshine, you could never be anything but perfect in my eyes.” And she knew it was true. She’d embarrassed herself plenty of times and her boyfriend was never anything but accepting. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom.

Xavier thought he had ascended to the heavens when his eyes caught sight of the outfit. Pink really was her color. She adjusted the bow around her neck with fidgeting fingers.

“What do you-“

“Turn around.” His usually monotone voice interrupted her before she could finish. She saw the fluffy tail, a buttplug, dangling from his fingers. “This is the final piece. I’ve already…prepped it for its final destination.”

Of course he would crack a joke. But she couldn’t think of much else when he walked over to her, brushing her hair off of her shoulder to kiss the exposed skin.

“You look beautiful. My own breeding bunny, hm?” He whispered in her ear. His fingers, still slick with lube, trailed up the lace thong. He pulled the thin fabric aside with his finger and rubbed his digits along the expansion between her cheeks.

“Oh, Xavier…” he whisper was breathless. He cooed softly, kissing her head right between the white fluffy bunny ears.

“Bend over the bed for me, Starshine. Hop to it.” If she wasn’t so horny, she’d slap him.

But her chest brushed the bed, her ass on full display for Xavier. Her breath hitched when a finger slid across her second hole. She shivered with a gasp when his index finger inched its way inside.

“So tight for me…but you can take it, bunny.” He whispered as if telling her the most sacred secret. When a second finger joined in soon after, Y/n swear she felt herself leak through the lingerie. Xavier was eager. He pulled out his fingers and lifted the plush bunny tail. “Deep breath bunny.”

Y/n’s manicured nails dug into the sheets as the plug slowly nestled itself between her cheeks. She gave a whine of approval when it notched itself in perfectly. Xavier rubbed her ass in a slow, circular motion as he stood back to devour the scene before him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.” He praised, pulling down his sweats just enough for his cock to spring out. He was already so hard, tip leaking with need. Y/n looked over her shoulder with wide, needy eyes.

“Xavier, please. I’ve been such a good bunny…” she pleads, lower lip jutting out in a pout.

“Oh, have you? Does my bunny deserve a treat for wearing such a scandalous outfit?” Xavier stepped forward just enough to rub the tip of his cock between her slit, collecting the juices there.

“Biiiig stretch, Bunny.” And he wasn’t kidding. Who knew such a nonchalant, soft spoken man was packing that much heat between his thighs. But Xavier could be patient contrary to belief. He lifted his sweat and clenched it between his teeth as he watched inch by inch disappear between her folds.

“Xavier…oh god….” Y/n whimpered. Her head bowed back as Xavier easily lifted her knees right at the edge so he could reach as deep as possible inside of her. The sweater dropped from his teeth when he bottomed out.

“Look at that Bunny. You’re so full. I’m all the way here…” he cooed, reaching below her to press when his cock was nestled inside of her warmth. Y/n bit her bottom lip to stifle her moans. “Ah, ah, ah…let me hear you, Starshine.” He punctuated his order by a harsh thrust that had his balls slapping her clit.

Y/n squeaked out a noise behind her bruised lips and Xavier immediately stroked her head. “That’s my good girl.”

His thrust, usually concise and solid, grew sloppy. Y/n could hear and physically feel how soaked she was. “X-Xavier! Feel so good, so deep….mmph!” She bit into the edge of his pillow but it was quickly ripped out from under her. Xavier lifted a strong long to the bed for balance and railed inside of her faster. The angle gave him an advantage and Y/n imagined the image they probably had laid out.

He was fucking her like a rabbit. Quick and sharp thrust, hellbent on one thing only.

Breeding.

Y/n’s little bunny ears were starting to slip and the thrust had her tits spilling from the top. Xavier could feel her walls flutter around him. He hooked fingers under her chin to make her turn her head to look at him.

Y/n’s little bunny ears were starting to slip and the thrust had her tits spilling from the top. Xavier could feel her walls flutter around him. He hooked fingers under her chin to make her turn her head to look at him.

“I’m gonna breed you, gonna b-breed this-Oh gods…-gonna breed this tight hole. My pretty bunny. My Starshine. My light. My-o-oh.” Y/n felt his balls tighten up against her clit. He was close. The way his curved cock was bullying that special spot inside of her, she wasn’t far behind.

His messy fingers gently tugged at the bunny tail. “Cum for me Bunny. Make a mess all over your Master’s cock. Serve me well.” Y/n was done for. With a strained cry, she tightened around his length to the point his hips stuttered. Xavier buried his face between the bunny ears that were barely hanging on.

Xavier was a sloppy man in the bedroom. He pulled out just enough for cum to trail down her thighs before using the head of his cock to scoop it up and push it back in. Y/n blushed at the stickiness between her thighs.

“Xavier, you pervert- w-wait!” Y/n was flipped on her back with ease. Xavier’s strong hands hooked behind her knees and pressed them to her chest in a mating press.

“Did you think we were done, Bunny? Oh no, I’m gonna fill you with all of my kits.”

Y/n swore in the back of her fucked out brain, that Xavier would be the next one to wear the bunny suit.

Do you ever see a post about someone complaining about ‘forced diversity’ and then it’s just the exact combination of traits you have

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

The rise in the popularity of Love and Deepspace (which, for brevity, I’ll be abbreviating to LADS) is incredibly interesting to me, particularly when we analyse it in conjunction with broad social trends within dating and relationships. I think that the uptick in AI Companionship and how women engage with it reflects a deeper set of issues pervading relationships and intimacy with women who experience attraction to men. Moreover, I think that this does speak to a generalised divestment - or, at the very least, re-examining - from previous views and approaches to heterosexual relationships. Personally, I believe that this is developing as a reaction to the broader uptick in misogyny.

While LADS is often dismissed as simply a ‘Gooner Game’ - that is, essentially, pornography for women - I think that such a dismissal is both inaccurate in terms of the game’s content as well as the motives and draw experience by its playerbase. It’s not entirely incorrect to point out that, yes, there is a degree of suggestive content in the game, particularly in the dating/relationship sides of the game, but LADS is much deeper than that. The game presents a self-directed approach to players: players interested in the story and universe of LADS can focus on that, whereas those players who wish to prioritise the ‘dating simulator’ aspects of the game are free to do so - while the dating aspect is, admittedly, much of the draw, presenting it as solely a dating game is, really, quite inaccurate.

Moreover, I think the way such a criticism is levelled is far more telling about the critics than the players; fundamentally, it suggests a refusal to engage with the game by simply writing it off as nothing more than just simple fluff met to titillate touch-starved players. Plus, the fact that this criticism has been, broadly, made by men is rather revealing. Firstly, it’s quite telling that a game that heavily targets, and is played primarily by, women receives these critiques, whereas arguably far more ‘explicit’ games that target men do not - or at least not from these same critics. Secondly, I think it’s rather telling that a game where the Love Interests are primarily approaching the player/main character through a lens of respectful attraction receives such heavy criticism from men.

But what truly fascinates me is the draw of LADS; as previously mentioned, I think that LADS represents a sort of ‘Heterosexual Idealism’ - that is, the idea of a heterosexual relationship where the man genuinely loves, respects, and cares for his girlfriend. And I think this speaks to a broader trend in society; we see more and more women turning to these types of ‘escapist’ content - such as LADS, CharacterAI, Dark Romance, and similar content - that, arguably, fulfills this Heterosexual idealism in response to the resurgence of misogyny in society, particularly in terms of dating.

To put it bluntly, as more and more men demonstrate themselves to be incapable of being a proper partner - often reacting with blatant misogyny when called out for such failings - I think we’ve seen a growing divestment from women. Relationships with men can be perilious, toxic, traumatising, and, unfortunately, too-often abusive. Naturally, it’s understandable that many women would choose to simply refocus their time and decentre men from their lives.

And this is where LADS comes in. LADS, and AI Boyfriends broadly, offers a sense of fulfillment for this desire for emotional intimacy with men while often avoiding the pitfalls that come with it. Women don’t have to worry about Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, nor Caleb abusing them, manipulating them, cheating on them, or anything else - they represent a simultaneously wish fulfillment of Heterosexual Idealism while also highlighting how, truly, low the bar is. Really, do the LADS boys truly represent an unattainable ideal, or do they simply represent the idea of a man who consistently goes above the bare minimum? It wouldn’t be impossible for a man to be what LADS players desire - sensitive, kind, emotionally intelligent, respectful, and supportive - it’d simply require consistent effort. But such a request is too often met with anger, resentment, mockery, or dismissal.

Which creates the question: if an AI Boyfriend can offer a sufficient simulacra of a relationship beyond what many men are willing to do, is it worth it? Is it worth letting oneself be wooed by the digital embrace of Artificial Intelligence?

It seems many women have, to some extent, answered yes.

But from this comes another question: how do we bridge the human desire for physical intimacy with the intangibility of AI? Currently, while AI has made admittedly shocking strides in advancement in terms of communication ability, memory, and realism, it is still bound by the limitations of the black mirror of computer screens.

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.