Thinking About Xavier’s Breeding Kink

happy autism awareness day to all the girls who had “ friends” growing up who were actually bullying them . to the girls who always sat alone in the grass and wondered why nobody wanted to talk . to the girls who spoke to animals like they were listening . to the girls who created a little world in their room . to the girls who always felt ashamed for how deeply they love things and how passionately they enjoyed media . to the girls who covered their ears when they were overwhelmed by everything . to the girls who carrying a special thing around to feel safe . to the girls who never understood what they did wrong to feel so lonely . to the girls who were diagnosed later in life because they weren’t little boys who liked trains. you are so special and beautiful and you’re not worse for it, you love deeply and that is so wonderful please never try to push that down . I LOVE YOU !!!!!

i’ve been thinking a lot lately about AI and its use in pornography, specifically in the seemingly gendered approach to it. Broadly speaking, there is a sort of ‘binary’ to the demographics of AI Pornography; men, typically, gravitate towards AI Images while women tend to gravitate more towards AI erotic roleplay (such as Chai and similar platforms which permit 18+ roleplay, unlike CharacterAI, generally speaking). While the gendered differences in consumption of pornography have been discussed and analysed before, I’m particularly interested in the broader implications of the intersection of AI and roleplay within pornography as I feel it differs from the traditional erotica-focused/text-focused pornography that many women gravitate towards, which I feel indicates a broader social pattern.

Particularly, what fascinates me about this is how much of this roleplay isn’t simply action-based (i.e., focused solely on sex) but rather more narrative-based (i.e., a specific dynamic - a mafia husband who’s secretly falling for you, a demon boyfriend courting his angel girlfriend, a prince smitten with a princess, and so on), which speaks to a broader desire for emotional connection.

Simply put, a cursory glance at these bots suggests that the user demographic seeks more than just sex - they seek connection.

Now, on its own this is not inherently surprising nor new - many women tend to prefer to feel ‘desired’ or ‘courted’ by their partners - but rather, I think that the broader social context that we see this interest evolving in is noteworthy. I think it is fundamentally linked to a larger social dynamic of the growing social gaps between men and women.

Over the past several years, particularly since the start of the pandemic, men in many countries have shifted towards more conservative and reactionary viewpoints; men overwhelmingly vote conservatively, many men have become far more outspoken in their misogynistic viewpoints, and many men have overwhelmingly demonstrated themselves to not be a desirable partner - be it due to politics, unequal contributions to domestic labour, disinterest in female sexual pleasure, or a litany of other factors.

Moreover, as the rate of female college graduates continues to rise - while the male rate declines - and womens’ overall growth in careers, mental health, education, income, and similar categories catches up to - or outright outpaces - mens’ performance, more and more women have seemed to developed a growing awareness that, simply put, being in a relationship with a man frankly does not offer the same benefits as it once did.

In reaction to this, many - though not all, of course - men have reacted negatively, instead doubling down on these behaviours rather than seeking to improve, which, in turn, has resulted in many women de-centering and de-prioritising men.

Concurrent to this, we’ve seen the rapid development and evolution of AI, which almost offers an escape - the ability to instead find fulfillment from an ‘AI Boyfriend’ - who’ll never leave dishes by the sink or ignore your pleasure - which I think contributes to this divide. Fundamentally, if you still desire companionship, at least in the vaguest of senses, you can satisfy it momentarily through the virtual embrace of AI.

Now, this isn’t to blame women for such a pivot - it’s wholly understandable why, given the above reasons, a woman might decide that remaining single isn’t that bad of an option - but I think it nonetheless requires discussion as we stare down the question of what happens when a large portion of the population may not end up in a relationship?

Regardless of what side of the issue an individual falls on, the question nonetheless retains its gravity. Fundamentally, whether or not we view men as wholly or in part at fault for this social trend in women choosing to remain single, we must consider how this affects men.

For example, if we take a group of 100 heterosexual men and estimate that 20% of them will not end up in a relationship, that leaves 20 men effectively isolated - particularly when we look at statistics of male friendships. Now, if we assume that 40% of them are unable to find a partner for ‘self-induced’ reasons - such as holding misogynistic views, for instance - that nonetheless leaves 12 seemingly ‘decent’ men single.

Now I’m not arguing that those 12 individuals are entitled to a relationship nor that they are obligated to be ‘given a chance,’ but rather I think we must ask ourselves: what happens to those overlooked individuals? It’s not sufficient to simply say “sucks to be you” as, ultimately, humans will still desire connection. Moreover, when we look at the systems that target these men - pipelines of radicalisation, such as the Far-Right - we fundamentally need to consider the outcomes of these circumstances.

I’m not positioning myself as a ‘defender of men’ here, but I fundamentally believe that we should not just abandon a segment of the population for no reason other than their gender. While, yes, the onus does ultimately fall on men as a whole to build up spaces and connections to combat this isolation, we nonetheless have to consider, as progressives, what will we do in response to this? Will we simply abandon these individuals, telling them to effectively ‘figure it out’ and leave them to search for communities, many of which implicitly push them out?

Fundamentally, I feel that that is an issue that pervades many progressive spaces; there is this tendency to engage in rhetoric outwardly hostile towards men and then be surprised that men are broadly disinterested in these spaces.

Now, I’m not arguing that we should placate and centre men - much of this rhetoric comes from people and groups who have understandable reasons to be distrustful of men, given the unfortunately too-common experiences of male violence - but we must nonetheless consider how we communicate this. To put it bluntly, we cannot reasonably expect men to happily sit by and be told they are fundamentally evil due to their gender; rather, we should try to find a reconcile our justifiable anger towards patriarchial violence while still offering space to men.

This doesn’t mean that we have to blindly tolerate patriarchial views and attitudes - fundamentally, I believe that everyone, regardless of who they are, should be held accountable and encouraged to grow - but instead we should open ourselves to a more intersectional perspective that considers that we are all victims of patriarchial violence.

Obviously, I’m not trying to equivocate between individual experiences of patriarchial violence and present them as all equal; instead, I’m simply positing that, in our ever-divided society, extending empathy to others is beneficial to reactionary ideology when we can.

In closing, I feel the words of Bell Hooks communicate my point much better than I ever could:

“To create loving men, we must love males. Loving maleness is different from praising and rewarding males for living up to sexist-defined notions of male identity. Caring about men because of what they do for us is not the same as loving males for simply being. When we love maleness, we extend our love whether males are performing or not. Performance is different from simply being. In patriarchal culture males are not allowed simply to be who they are and to glory in their unique identity. Their value is always determined by what they do. In an anti-patriarchal culture males do not have to prove their value and worth. They know from birth that simply being gives them value, the right to be cherished and loved.” - Bell Hooks, “The Will To Change”

hi everyone!! your 5th favourite queer yapper on tumblr has excited news !!

if youre into abstract art, i have a portfolio ^-^ you can find it here

alsooo i'll be posting my first lookbook In The Soon™️ on my instagram so take a look if you wanna see ^-^

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.

hello faggot on tumblr dot com

you know who you are

omg STRONGLY recommend this !!! like honestly probably the best series ive read on here

(BUT OH MY GOD THE ANGST 😭😭)

(still 10/10 imo tho lol)

Calm and Serenity

Series Masterlist

Sylus x Non!MC

summary: you didn't know what sylus saw in you. he said you were calm, quiet and serene and that's what he needs. you believed it. he showed it. not until little miss hunter came. she's everything you're not. news that she's in danger can make the ever so calm sylus to run and leave everything behind. it made you think, would he do that for you as well?

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Soft boy <3

back by unpopular demand: me

she let me hit cause i support my public library