#sometimes my loves feels like an infection

[howlsofbloodhounds]

You know, one of my favorite headcanons is that Nightmare's and Dream's Negativity and Positivity auras cause permanent damage to the soul if used too frequently.

My thought process about it is literally just that they function basically as extraneous bodies influencing the soul from the inside. Meaning that, with enough exposure, an actual extraneous residue can remain inside the soul. It's basically like an incurable infection.

Now, imagine this applied to Killer. Killer who probably chased after the feelings of the aura at least at first because sometimes he needs to feel literally anything at all to not lose it (and because the pain that came after the high was grounding and 'fun' in the way he's been conditioned to regard all pain).

And imagine him after running away from Nightmare and finally finding a a safe space with Color only to be hit with the realization that both of the ones who destroyed him left permanent marks on him (Chara with the very shape of his soul, and Nightmare with the black sludge he can never wash away flowing just below the surface). Imagine Color having to gently but firmly refuse to leave a mark of his own. Because that's not gonna make anything better, not really, it's only gonna hurt Killer further. But Killer insists that he needs it, he needs at least one mark that is from something good- from someone good.

Just, hhhhhhhhhhh, the possibilities for angst with this are so many

I love that headcanon, and the thought of that is kinda sad.

It reminds me of this little comic I came across like a year or two ago where Killer carved Color’s name into his wrist. It was for different reasons, i believe it was because Killer couldn’t think of another way to show Color that he loved him other than to leave something of Color on him permanently and that way he’d never forget him.

I wonder what kind of marking(s) Killer would be looking for here, what he’d be willing to settle for, how desperate would he get and how far would he be willing to go to get what he wants from Color.

Does it need to be something permanent, something small and easily hidden or something big enough to notice? Can it be temporary but frequent, like bite or scratch marks? Would he try to get color to fight and bruise him up. Would he find a way to leave color’s mark on him himself. Would something like a collar from Color or with something that links back to Color work, if it’s not exactly what he wants.

I’d imagine the thought of being marked again, even if by Color, would cause some major conflict between his stages—his dissociative parts, causing a lot of confusion and disturbance.

The body may have been conditioned to enjoy pain and torture, especially in Stage 2, but doesn’t mean Killer wants it or even can mentally or emotionally handle it in other Stages.

If Color marks him in a permanent painful way, somewhere deep down it’d register as a betrayal to Killer—and if Color doesn’t do something, there’s a risk of feeling misunderstood and maybe even rejected—leading to distancing if Color doesn’t approach the subject carefully.

Color is in a very delicate situation, and he has to make a choice or a compromise if he’s willing, but he also has to be prepared for any consequences or pushback that would come from refusing—which he is of course allowed to do.

I can see him being willing to find a safer alternative or compromise, and Killer is going to have to accept that one way or another—no matter how may push at the lines, keep trying to convince Color. And even if he may come very close to straight up begging—trying to convince Color that it’d be good, he can take it, it’s just once, he trusts him, yada yada.

Cause at the end of the day, Color can tell this request is coming from a place of fear and self dehumanization, a need for security and reassurance that Color is willing to give him in safer ways, not a genuine want.

{ @stellocchia }

[certifiedsexed]

Hello !!! I hope its okay to send something in, i know you have a bunch to go through. I really do appreciate what you're doing!!!

I am gonna ask for Vagina specifics, but before i get into it, i wouldn't mind if you also wanted to answer for other genitalia <3

So.. I'm a fat person, and i really don't mind! What i do mind and have noticed.. my labia and such are also changing, and it is a bit of a struggle to wipe. I have to gently spread myself to. Is there any tips on how to take care of fat genitals? I don't want to risk infections or anything. Thank you!

Hi, it's always okay to send something in, I love answering questions. I'm glad to help. <3

Now, this article is more for body hygiene for fat bodies in general, not genitalia specifically, but I think it might have the info you're looking for! If it doesn't, let me know and I can do some more searching.

Important notes for those who don't read the article:

"Keep The Wet Bits Dry! If you have any areas of skin that experience friction, feel warmer, or are moist to the touch, it will be important to keep these areas of your skin dry. When the folds of your skin collect moisture, they can also collect bacteria and other pathogens that can lead to irritation and rashes.

If you’re experiencing an active flare-up of red, raw, irritated skin, don’t panic.

It’s common for yeast-type infections to develop on areas of the skin where oil and moisture are present. These infections are very similar to “jock itch," a common infection⁠ of the skin on the groin. Keep the impacted area clean⁠ and dry, and it will likely clear up on its own. You can use ice packs or cold compresses to help with some of the warmth and irritation.

There are also antifungal sprays you can get to relieve some irritation, although they can sometimes cause burning when first applied due to their alcohol content.

If you’re picking up any medicated sprays or treatments, it’s best to check in with a doctor first to make sure they’re right for you. You should also check with a doctor if the irritation doesn’t go away, or if it gets worse after a few days."

Hope this helps! If it doesn't, or if you have more questions, lemme know! <3

[neeshachar]

i like her so much i wish i could crawl into her skin and settle in her bones like old tuberculosis. not the harmful type, i'd just stay dormant forever, wouldn't leave her body for anybody else's. and if im lucky maybe i could metastasize and get into her heart as well. but im getting ahead of myself.

[flowercrowngods]

So, any manufacturing center can be a plant. Cars are built at car plants. Also where electricity is generated, not just nuclear power. There are coal burning power plants, for example.

Because it's Indiana in the 80s, I kind of expect the plant Wayne works at to be a steel plant, or someplace that builds agricultural equipment like tractors. I believe Indiana did decent amount of automobile manufacture, as well.

the face i made reading this!! :D

that’s so interesting!! thank you, that genuinely helps understanding and writing wayne, whose background is largely comprised of fanon anyway

thank you, friend! 🙏🤍

[medicinemane]

Jesus fucking christ I get tired of sitting here and hearing my dad loudly ripping ass from the other room

Like listen, I get it, I get that you can't control your guts. Like fuck, for a while... as in like months, I was having trouble even leaving the house... still no clue what was even up which makes me feel like my theory about not eating enough is in the lead given... haven't found any allergies I can identify

So I get it and have sympathy (and fear inheriting my dad's guts), but... it's just so fucking gross man

And it's also like... maybe I'm eating, maybe I'm watching a show... whatever it is the mood's kinda ruined by this just... it almost literally couldn't be louder or grosser

I get you can't control your guts but... do something... anything... see a doctor or... anything

It's just nasty. He's not a bad person, but my dad's just a nasty dude

[fingertipsmp3]

I’m not even gonna lie, my grief over Mabel is making me insane

[scatteredskittless]

Ticci Toby headcanons⁉️

A/n: Back and writing for my childhood crush?? Yes, yes I am.

Warnings: Mentions of sex (kinda)

🪓☆ Bro LOVES animals and insects, especially the ones that most people dislike

🪓☆ Such as centipedes, millipedes, possums, raccoons, snakes, beetles (especially weevils omg) and spiders + many many more

🪓☆ MIDWESTERN EMO BOY!! Guys PLEASE just look at him it makes sense

🪓☆ He has a few freckles and moles :33

🪓☆ The type of person who’s kinda quiet until you get to know him, grows more comfortable with you over time :P

🪓☆ He can be kind of a sarcastic jerk sometimes though ngl 😭

🪓☆ NOT a morning person

🪓☆ Hypersexual

🪓☆ Plus due to his CIPA it’s one of the few things he actually can feel.

🪓☆ Likes to go on walks. And I’m talking HOURRR LONG ONES

🪓☆ Toby’s love language is for sure either quality time or physical touch 💯💯

🪓☆ Besties with Jeff and Jane and is like an annoying little brother to Masky

🪓☆ He’s pansexual !! If there’s a hole there’s a goal 🙏

🪓☆ Tried to pierce his ears by himself once… Yeaaahh they got infected the next day

🪓☆ Absolute LOSER but I love him dearly so it’s alright <3

🪓☆ Waffle jokes and whatever aside, he enjoys both waffles and pancakes equally, not really much of a preference there.

Please do not repost, translate, or plagarize any of my fanfictions/headcanons/writing without permission ◟( ˃̶͈◡ ˂̶͈ )◞

ᯓ★ Scatteredskittles

[xfindingtrouble]

“We keep living anyway. We rise and we fall and we break and we make our mistakes.” – for Vilkas, from Aela.

regret was easier in theory, rising above was easier in theory. the unfortunate thing about theory is that it often left vilkas' brain simmering with too many ' what if's. how he could have done things differently, what would have been the better scenario by the end of it. outwardly he could stand by his decisions quite stubbornly, but internally...? well, things got a bit more complicated.

perhaps he hadn't been careful enough with his allusions to regret, his questioning of the twisting paths that had led them this far. as the years passed, he could not help but wonder how they would be remembered. what sort of light would be shone upon them when they died. would they be remembered as heroes or beasts? how long before someone saw them as they were, saw beyond the narrative they didn't write.

vilkas' shoulders drop as he sinks into his chair, meeting aela's gaze from across the table. they had spent most of the night nestled in the corner of some unremarkable tavern, drinking unremarkable ale. it hardly held a flame to the drinks back home, but it did the job while they were passing through this forgettable town. ( he would be glad when they got back on the road, he thinks. )

" You're right, I suppose. Mistakes make man, " though he doesn't seem entirely convinced, his brow is still knotted together in thought. His voice drops & he leans a bit closer. maybe he ought to hold his tongue, but it was a night for sentiment, wasn't it? " But sometimes I feel like the rules are different for us. Our mistakes aren't just ours, they aren't always so individual. "

it was difficult to trade his sentiments with others, but it was always a bit easier when it was someone who may understand. stubborn as she was, aela was not without reason. their conversation had taken many twists & turns, skipping past the perceived mistakes that he usually couldn't pay attention to. his mouth feels too dry & so he sips at his drink, letting her words settle in the space between them. they should be comforting & they almost are, but vilkas' mind is not so quick to rest.

[yueebby]

4:36am – gojo satoru

synopsis. satoru is dying (he has a fever) and he needs his darling wife (you) to nurse him back to health 

contents. fluff, lovesick!gojo, even in sickness gojo can still flirt, he yaps a lot abt marriage and he’s kind of perverted, but he’s just so in love why dont you just give him one chance?

notes. i tried to make this very shoujo-esque. cant have a good shoujo anime without a fever episode!  this has also been sitting in my drafts for a hot minute. enjoy yet another fic of me showering satoru with affection (sigh).

the cold wooden floors of your dormitory creak underneath your waddling feet. your sleepy haze does not deter you from the strong desire for a cold glass of water.

surprisingly, the usual dark communal kitchen is illuminated by the small lightbulb inside of the fridge. you hear shuffling of some items from the white icebox, removing any ounce of sleepiness from you. it was unusual for anyone to be up at four in the morning.

a tuft of white hair peeks over the refrigerator door, giving the culprit’s identity away.

“satoru? i thought you were still on that mission in sendai?”

the sounds of digging pauses. satoru’s rises to his full height, towering over the rundown refrigerator door. he gives you a crooked smile that you rarely see. it’s dopier than one of his signature cocky smiles.

“missed me? don’t worry, i tried to speed run it since i knew i had such a beautiful woman waiting for me back home.” 

you placed a hand on your hip, scoffing at his pathetic attempts to flatter you. a snarky response was about to fall from your lips, but a series of painful coughs from the lanky male stopped you. 

you recoil back to avoid his germs. “gross. are you sick?”

satoru sniffles, pointing his nose in the air. the same nose that was starting to turn pink from irritation. “i can’t get sick. it’s physically impossible.” 

“don’t be stubborn, satoru. why didn’t you call for help?” 

he huffs, eyes trained to the floor. “it’s too early. shoko’ll kill me for waking her up.”

sometimes you forget that satoru had an image to uphold. he was the great gojo satoru, after all. 

but if you don’t take care of him, then who will? and despite your disdain at the thought of coddling his ego, it was only basic decency to take care of a fellow peer (or that was what you’d like to convince yourself).

silently, you place the back of your hand to his forehead. you’re not surprised by the warm sensation that you feel. 

satoru’s hazy eyes watch as you move your hand from his forehead to his cheek.

you purse your lips in concern. with the way satoru was stubbornly denying that he wasn’t sick, you were nearly certain that he was indeed not fine. without warning, you grab the collar of his white t-shirt and pull him to your room.

“at least take me out to dinner before~”

“shut it.”

it wasn’t hard to get satoru to settle in your bed. in fact, he seemed giddy at the opportunity. while he was happy cuddling with your rilakkuma plushie, you came to two conclusions: either satoru had a wound from his mission that got infected, or he was simply sick.

knowing his pride, you lean towards the former.

the boy in question winces when you grab his shoulders to inspect the damage done to him. the sounds of furious pats and heavy breathing is the only thing you can hear over your rapidly beating heart as your hands run down his body to check for any injuries. satoru sucks in his breath when your hands cup his cheeks to loll his head to check for any damages done to that pretty face of his. 

his body tensing up doesn’t go unnoticed by you. your imposing hands immediately retract, afraid of inflicting any more damage on him.

“where is the wound?!” your frantic eyes meet his blissed out ones. 

satoru sighs happily, lazily grabbing your hands to bring back onto him,  “there isn’t one, this just feels nice.”

your chest angrily puffs up before you shove him into your soft mattress. he grunts, but you know it didn’t hurt.

“[name]!” he whines, rubbing the arm that cushioned his fall.

you cross your arms angrily, “you scared me!”

gojo mimics your actions, crossing his arms while weakly glaring at you. his efforts to intimidate you prove futile as he shivers uncontrollably, resembling a newborn kitten.

sighing, you delve into your closet, emerging with an oversized black sweatshirt that you toss to him.

he catches it with ease, a chuckle escaping while he inspects the sweater, “i never took you for the type to wear this.”

“....that’s not mine.” you give a nod in the direction of the men’s sweater. the sparkle of amusement vanished from satoru's eyes, coinciding with his jaw dropping.

his grip on the dark sweatshirt tightened while his head darted back and forth from you to the clothing item. “then whose is it?!” 

“suguru’s.”

you think that you’ve broken him when his face scrunches up in disgust. it’s laughable how his mouth had managed to stay wide open the entire time.

“sugu-suguru?!” he splutters. you slowly nod, careful not to make any sudden movements that could provoke him any further. “why– how– explain yourself!”

you cast an uneasy glance at the sweater, finding it challenging to summon any recollections of how you obtained it, especially with satoru's piercing cerulean eyes fixed on you. his scrutinizing stare has the power to reduce you into a puddle.

“well? go on,” he urges you when you stay silent. 

“it’s nothing, really. i believe it was from that mission i had with suguru a while back. somewhere up north. i had packed light and suguru offered me his sweater.” you tap a finger on your chin to recall the memory. “i guess it just slipped my mind to return it.”

“slipped your mind, huh…” satoru sniffles before letting out a sneeze loud enough to wake up japan. you nearly jump out of your skin.

“suguru was just being friendly… and be quiet! yaga will have our heads if he finds you in the girls’ wing!” you warn the weary boy in front of you, prompting him to respond with a dramatic sigh.

“how mean!” he whines before making a pained expression. you quickly rush to his aid. when you make it to his bedside, satoru weakly hands you a clean tissue.

you stare at it blankly.

“be a darling and help me blow my nose?” he gestures for you to hold the tissue up for him. all you can hear are muffled whines when you shove him underneath your plush covers. 

when your flurry of attacks ends, he cautiously lifts his head from beneath the sheets. to his surprise, a steaming bowl of bitter melon miso soup is presented to him. while the broth isn't your personal favorite, shoko appreciates its bold flavor, spurring your decision to prepare it the night prior. despite its bitter components, the concoction had a perfect track record of treating illnesses. you have your brown haired friend to thank.

perhaps it was cruel of you to take enjoyment while he eyes the bowl in horror. you know his sweet palate couldn’t handle it.

he looks up at you with big pleading eyes while shaking his head. you roll your eyes.

“c’mon, it won’t kill you.” the bowl inches closer to him by your doing. “please?”

satoru's pallid complexion contorts into a hesitant frown. "i’ll eat it…” he concedes reluctantly. however, his gaze lingers on the bowl with a mixture of uncertainty and reluctance. you respond with a hopeful smile, but it fades when he adds, "on two conditions."

“this is for your own health, not mine satoru.” you remind him.

“doesn’t it pain you to see me suffer?” he brings up, eyes glittering in the darkness.

you suck in a breath. “...not really.” lie.

“you wound me, love.” he clutches his shirt like he has been critically hit. 

you bite your lip, tired of his theatrics. “what are the two conditions?”

just like that, gojo comes back to life.

“condition number one! you have to feed me.” he points one finger into the air, paired with an innocent smile. “and two: i want you to warm me up like that night in our first year.”

an unflattering appalled expression is cast over your face. no words leave your mouth for a good minute. “y-you’re disgusting. why are you the way you are?”

“love,” he sighs. “anyways, what kind of wife wouldn’t feed her husband while he’s dying?”

“satoru,” you warn. he was starting to babble nonsense again. “if i accept your conditions, will you shut up?” your eyes were starting to feel heavy. it was the middle of the night, after all.

he nods fervently.

carefully with the bowl of soup in hand, you gently squish yourself next to satoru on your full sized bed. the tight fit left you little room to move, forcing the two of you to nestle closely to each other. with a gentle maneuver, you rest your head on his chest. his arm slowly drapes itself protectively over your shoulder.

“your heart is beating awfully fast.” you whisper, tilting your head upward to take a glimpse of satoru’s feverish face. his breath hitches.

he takes a hand and holds your head back onto his chest to prevent your movement.

“shut it. i didn’t think you would actually accept my conditions.” he mumbles.

“don’t get used to it. this is another moment of weakness.”

you stir the spoon in the broth, basking in the silence of the night, save for satoru’s erratic heartbeat.

“this is very intimate isn’t it?” he gushes. “it’s almost like we’re married—”

“keep your side of the deal,” you remind him, lifting a spoonful of broth up to his mouth. satoru looks straight into your eyes as he opens his mouth to receive it.

his adam's apple bobs when he swallows, “i’m going to tell our grandkids that we were written in the stars.”

you shove another spoonful of soup into his mouth.

extra notes

satoru magically recovered from his fever the next morning.

his second condition (for you to warm him up like that night in your first year) refers to this fic from earlier on in the series.

satoru also made you promise to never accept another hoodie from suguru. if you needed one, satoru was more than willing to give you his! (you halfheartedly agree, only because he was acting all delirious because of his fever).

as of right now, there have only been three occasions where satoru has fallen asleep in your presence. he can testify that those were the best nights of sleep in his life.

shoko went into your room for a spare pair of stockings the next morning only to find you tucked into gojo’s chest. she chases him out of your room all while calling him a pervert . bless her heart.

[drdemonprince]

I grew up with abstinence-only sex education, and it did a real number on me. But I’ve shaken off enough of my old cultural programming to realize that the transmission of bacteria and viruses is a thing that sometimes just happens when animals come together, no matter how stringently we might try to prevent it.

I have gotten urinary tract infections when a stray microbe found its way into my urethra after sex. Lube and bodily fluids have disturbed my vagina’s pH and caused a yeast infection many times. So has wearing a bathing suit for too long without drying it, yet another “risk” worth the pleasures of swimming along the sea wall.

Once or twice I’ve had an outbreak of cold sores, just like 80% of humans. If I’m like most people, I probably caught oral herpes when I was very young, sharing a sippy cup or rolling around at a sleepover.

None of this makes me disgusting, irresponsible, evil, or dangerous to others. It just makes me a living creature that exists in close contact with other creatures. I believe I have a responsibility to get tested regularly, to alert people who have been close to me when I get sick, and to use preventative measures like condoms, PreP, vaccines, toys, and masks to prevent the spread of infections as best I can. But I never imagine I can lead a life without risk — or that such a life would even be desirable.

There is no such thing as completely “safe” sex. A friend of mine can’t use condoms because they give her bacterial vaginosis. She chooses instead to fuck raw and take PreP and get anything else she catches treated. A guy I know who masks and tests religiously caught COVID while fisting someone (with a gloved hand!) at an air-filtered party. HPV is so prevalent that most sexual wellness clinics don’t bother testing for it, and can’t do much for a patient if they do have it. Our bodies are teeming at all times with various endemic viruses and microbes that we will never have the power to purge.

Then there are the possible costs of not having sex — vaginal atrophy, pelvic floor weakening, reduced access to endorphins, loneliness, touch starvation, the despair of harboring dreams that one never dares try. I can’t decide for anyone else which dangers loom the largest, but for me a gonorrhea shot is a fair trade for the hours of leg-cramping, bed-staining, hypno-kinky sex that led to it. There’s no guarantee that the next time I have sex it will be anywhere near as much fun, but the potential keeps me throwing the dice.

I hear quite frequently from sexually inexperienced Autistic people who crave an intimate connection, but desperately wish to remain responsible and “safe.” They want there to be a set of iron-tight rules they can follow that will guarantee they remain a virtuous person who never hurts anyone’s feelings, and never catches any sexually transmitted infection.

I understand why they want someone to impose order onto an unpredictable, terrifying world. But I can’t give that certainty to them, nor can anyone. All I can suggest is that they be honest with themselves about what they want, inform themselves of the costs and benefits to pursuing their desires, and then venture forward — proudly welcoming the correct risks into their life, rather than trying to avoid any risks at all.

Life is nothing but a negotiation of risk. If a person has gender dysphoria and they want to combat it, they must risk a transition they could one day regret. If an abolitionist wants to take a stand against the police state, they must plan for the possibility of arrest or political repression. When we open our hearts to love, we expose ourselves to grief — our partners will keep changing and growing, sometimes away from us. Each step that we take forward in life closes off potential paths. There is no avoiding this.

Instead of chasing after the false promise of “safety,” trying to remain completely insulated from harm and challenge forever, we must get better at admitting risk into our lives.

I wrote about all about the messy business of risk mitigation, and how the pursuit of perfect safety is used to justify isolation, theft of bodily autonomy, and political repression. It's free to read (or have narrated to you by the app!) at drdevonprice.substack.com

[charliemwrites]

Unhinged obsessive Johnny Thoughts™️? Unhinged obsessive Johnny Thoughts™️.

Johnny didn’t mean to. He swears he didn’t mean to, please understand.

You’re his favorite server at his favorite bar. He finds every excuse he can to drag one or all of his team there. Yes he likes their company, of course. Likes spending time with them, laughing and joking and building bonds outside of life or death situations. But you are the highlight of those nights.

You smile so sweetly, a little cheeky twist whenever he gets all of the 141 there together. You know all their names - or their callsigns at least. Call Price “captain” with a giggle whenever he groans at you to stop calling him that.

Johnny adores you. Sometimes when he’s alone at the table - the others off smoking or playing pool - you’ll stop by. You don’t have to, but you do, chatting until one of the other servers teases to stop flirting and help bus.

You always blush when they shout that, but never deny it. Leave him with one last warm smile and a promise to top up his drink for listening to you ramble. As if he couldn’t live with your voice in his ears all the time.

You tell him about your masters program. Complain about shitty customers. Admit you broke up with your last boyfriend for calling your hobbies a “silly waste of time.” The movies you’ve seen or watch for nostalgia. He knows when your playlist is on at the bar because you spend your entire shift bouncing and mouthing along whenever you’re not handling a customer.

It’s a slow infection. A creeping, insidious thing that seeps into his blood and corrupts him from the inside out. This awful, twisting devotion for you.

He knows to be careful, loathe to be one of those men you avoid like the plague, trading with other servers to handle. He doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable. He’s happy with the flirting and the little kindnesses, happy that you always light up when you see him. That you breathe a quiet “thank you” and squeeze his arm the one time he steps in one a handshake customer on your behalf.

It’s enough. He reminds himself that it’s enough. He doesn’t deserve more than you’re willing to give. He can’t give you the life you deserve yet.

But then one day things go wrong. So, so wrong.

There’s been a rowdy group of men that have been harassing the younger servers all night. You stepped in, older and more experienced, practiced at not giving them the reactions they want. It’s another of the things Johnny loves about you. You don’t need a mask like Ghost to hide your face.

One them especially tries antagonize you, even manages to earn a sharp word when he says something crass. Johnny tenses when the guy (buddies following suit) starts getting loud, aggressive. Towering over you when he knocks over his barstool, trying to intimidate.

Johnny shoves the guy away from you before it can get much farther. Relief washes over you as the owner, a big burly man, finally makes an appearance and kicks the lot of them out.

“A whiskey on the house for Soap,” you ask the bartender, hand pressed to your chest. “My knight in a cotton sweater.”

He smiles for your sake, mind buzzing to see you so shaken up.

“Alright, lass?”

“Yeah, just spooked me is all,” you sigh, a hand to your cheek now. “Think I’m gonna step out for some air. Thank you again, John.”

He lets you go, even though every molecule in his body urges him to bundle you up under his arm, safe and sound. Take you somewhere quiet to smooth your feathers.

Something doesn’t feel right.

He manages to wait exactly one minute and seventeen seconds before he tells a blasted Gaz that he’s going to the bathroom. When he steps out the back door, you’re being cornered by the man, two of his friends hanging back telling him to “leave it alone” but not actually doing a fucking thing to stop him.

So Johnny does. Honestly, he blacks out for a second. The next thing he knows, he’s cradling you in his arms, his knuckles stinging and bloody. The men are nowhere to be found but there’s a pool of blood in the alleyway. You’re unconscious, fainted sometime in the scuffle - or maybe hit your head.

Johnny isn’t himself. He’s not thinking. He’s used to keeping his cool with guns pressed to his head, but this is different. This is you.

He doesn’t mean to. He really doesn’t but it’s the best he can come up with when he just got a firsthand look at how dangerous the world is for you when he’s not around.

Please understand. He has to keep you safe.

[soap-ify]

any thots on chubby könig? i saw your post about simon gaining weight during leave, and now you have my könig infected brain thinking about könig :(

he'd be ashamed and almost slightly insecure about gaining weight, he goes too hard on himself because he grew up larger than everyone else...

but when you run your pussy against his chubby stomach, moaning out blissfully with tears in your eyes, he seemingly doesn't have an issue with his weight gain anymore ;3

or his thighs :( grinding against him while groping the soft flesh in his burly, meaty arms :(

feel free to delete or ignore, my dove !!! hope you're doing well ☀️🫂🌷

ORLA HI!! this is my first time writing for könig... trembling rn. (his debut into the ruruverse)

chubby könig can’t help but remember all the bullying he had endured when he was in school for his height and other stuff. he’d look at the soft layer of fat adorning his otherwise built torso with so much disdain, determined to lose the fat by working out even more before the next deployment. plus he wanted to look good for you!

you on the other hand simply adored how soft he had gotten. you loved resting your cheek on his meaty bicep, or on his warm squishy pecs (you’d squish them sometimes, he’d get all cocky after that).

though what truly boosted his ego back was when you were straddling him, wet cunt clumsily rubbing against his soft tummy while your hands were laid on his chest for balance, sweet little moans leaving your lips. your clit would nicely be rubbing against his skin, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

and he was simply enamored by the sight of you pleasuring yourself with his tummy.

“f-feels so good, könig…”

“ja? i can see that.” he huffed, his warm rough hands gently holding into your waist, groaning a bit as your fingers squished and dug into his soft pecs, your body trembling.

he’d make you lick your cum off his tummy after that, all while grinning victoriously like an idiot.

you really did wonders on his ego.

[coquettepascal]

purpose on earth

summary: joel loves to take, you love to give.

tags: 18+, smut, angst(ish), jackson era!joel, cold!joel, grumpy!joel, innocent!reader, dom!joel, implied age gap (reader doesn't remember pre-outbreak), corruption kink, joel takes your undies, humiliation, oral sex (m!receiving), allusion to thigh riding, a feeling of helpless/hopeless-ness permeates this fic, reader is pretty pathetic, use of "sweet girl", objectification of reader, unrequited obsession, this fic isn't necessarily sexy, just mildly sad.

a/n: i literally wrote this like an hour ago while i was supposed to be outlining my next project, but @hellishjoel told me to listen to my creative demons... so now this is being posted.

(1.1k, just a baby)

Nothing in this world has ever, or will ever, belong to you. Faint memories glaze your mind sometimes, when you lay down to rest. Not your own memories, but things you’ve read in books and seen in abandoned family photo albums. White wedding dresses, cars that drive, Sunday night family dinner. An American lifestyle that was sucked away with the cordyceps, something only they could clear out. The bombs the government used, the ones you can’t remember anymore, they never wiped mother earth clean the way she has done for herself.

She’s infected, and not yours. Nothing outside of Jackson’s walls belongs to your human hands.

You’ve never known ownership. The clothes you wear belonged to people before you, the ground you walk on cannot be sold. Maybe in another life this would feel fulfilling, but something in you wants to know what it is to own, or even fit in. Your skin, flushed and healthy, skin full of life and blood and organs. A heart that thumps in a world of disease, disorder, death. What a weird purity you hold, something you want to ruin. 

A person like you isn’t meant to own anything here. It feels like you have to belong, if you wish to take.

He will do it for you. 

Joel knows greed, remembers the world before. His hands have taken food, land, lives, anything you can imagine. It isn’t something you realistically think about, more infatuated with how he has the ability to do all these things. Not that you hadn’t committed your own sins, but to defend yourself isn’t wrong, at least that’s what he says. Something in Joel smolders the way only a primal fire can, he is from a world whose memory of a flame will extinguish soon.

He doesn’t help with any of your wants, your need to own or belong. But Joel shows you what it is to take.

You don’t understand the fascination he has with you. The memory of the night he first led you back to his house is blurry, a fleeting moment in comparison to what has happened since. There was conversation of music, of you having a tape you wish you could play. 

His hands were slow when they slid your underwear down your legs, you hoped he wasn’t looking. Nothing about you felt sexy or womanly, you felt dwarfed when he was so close. Again, you wished you could belong, so maybe you could hide. There was a stain in the gusset and you remember how he pulled the garment off your ankles when it dangled there.

“Lemme see,” he had demanded, “lemme see what I did t’you.”

Joel had smeared his thumb through the sticky wet mark, huffing in surprise. He knew it was for him, knew there was nothing else that could have made you do that. Humiliated, you had tried to yank back your underwear, but he refused.

“S’mine now,” he laughed, cheeks rosy.

That was the first time Joel took from you. 

Now you seek him, the ache for belonging in the world twisting to a yearning for him to take from you. If you could not belong to this world, if you could not fit, at least you could fulfill him. Joel doesn’t like it when you seek him out too often, hates when others notice it. You’re not his, never his, just a moment of gratification for his consuming greed. 

Once, you waited in the early morning at the stables for him. Crouched near the barn door, you waited and watched the dewy grass grow. The crunch of his boots, the yawn he let out as he passed by you, it was enough. He said nothing to you, took off on his horse with some other man trailing behind him. 

“Joel’s so responsible,” you thought to yourself, “he’ll need me later I bet.”

Of course, he did. You relished in the small victory of him stealing from you again. Purity leaks from you in the form of drool on your chin, when he pulls you off his cock. Joel’s thumbs push the spit back in your mouth and you suck it down willingly. Praise rumbles off his tongue and into your ears, a southern rhythm you find sanctuary in. Pushing his dick back into your mouth is all pleasure to him, but it’s a taste of greed for you. 

“Sweet girl, that’s a good mouth f’me, ain’t it?” Joel asks, head tilting back.

He never takes his pants off, but he strips you naked. His eyes arguably take more than his hands ever will. The bob of his Adam's apple hypnotizes your eyes as you garble a response to his question. Scarcely do you make sense around Joel, or even speak. You don’t think you can remember the last time you held a proper conversation with him, he usually just waits for you to come around.

It all starts the same, standing on his porch and waiting until he opens the door.

“Missin’ me?” He asks every time.

Joel doesn’t miss you, he doesn’t need you. He just likes how much you give. But you miss him, as soon as he pushes you out into the cold again you miss him. His greed is your purpose.

And so with your purpose, you push yourself down to the base of him. The waterline of your eyes is welling up fast, distorting your vision of him. You blink up at him like he’ll look down, like you’re more than a mouth. You aren’t, not to him, but you get to admire him like this. The puff of his chest, the swell of his throat, and his hands when they come to rip you off him.

He never pulls your hair, just grasps your face in his worn-down palms and pushes you away before jerking himself onto your naked body. 

“S’nice, you’re so nice t’me,” he grumbles. 

Under the yellow light in Joel’s living room, you feel useful. You’re doing more than surviving in this world. You have a purpose, even if he seldom needs you. He uses the sleeves of his flannel to wipe away the tears that slide down your cheeks, still mumbling about how sweet you are. Naked, smattered in him, you smile. Glittery eyes meet his and he snorts. 

“You were missin’ me, huh?” He teases. 

Joel rubs his thumb across your cheek again, the closest thing you’ll get to his lips on you. In his post-orgasmic haze, he almost looks fond. 

“He almost likes me,” your mind whispers, your stomach fluttering, “it’s almost like I belong.”

And once you’ve nodded in response to his question, messy mouthed and gazing at him, your purpose, he taps his thigh. Blood rushes to your head as you stand, crawling onto him. 

In your obedient mind, you define your efforts for Joel as a purpose, but you think you can taste a hint of belonging each time he spreads your legs. 

[bbwcasey]

It feels strange and vulnerable to write something this personal here, but maybe that's why I’m doing it. Maybe because I feel like you all are the only ones who might truly understand the storm inside me—the anger and sadness that’s just really hard to put into words.

I've briefly mentioned my aunt before. She was my rock when my dad was deployed and my mom was working long hours. During that part of my childhood, she was the one who raised me. At her heaviest, she weighed over 700 pounds, almost 800. Over the years, I’ve been careful not to share too many details about her, because sadly, some of you struggle to respect the clear boundaries that should exist here.

She died on Monday. And she died in a way no one should ever have to. My heart is absolutely shattered.

She had been living in a bariatric care facility for over a decade—bed-bound, very limited mobility. For as long as I can remember, that was her reality. I watched it unfold slowly, starting in high school when she lost the ability to walk, when taking care of her became a shared effort between me, my mom, and my Yiayia. We loved her, we cared for her the best we could. But, as time passed, her needs became too great, and she was moved into the care of professionals. At least, that's what we thought.

But the facility failed her. They failed her in the most basic of ways. She needed a 4-person assist just to be bathed, just to go to the bathroom—and that wasn’t always available. Sometimes it was because of understaffing. Sometimes it was pure negligence. And that neglect led to infections. One of them turned into necrotizing fasciitis—a flesh-eating bacteria. That’s what killed her. That’s how she died. Suddenly. Painfully. Needlessly.

I am furious. And I am heartbroken.

It messes with my head in ways I can’t even explain. I’ve spent so much of my life obsessed with the idea of being that big, fantasizing about being absolutely massive, and now, here I am, mourning my aunt who lived that reality. I don’t know if she ever felt the way I feel about it. I don’t know if the things I think about were part of her experience. Honestly, I don’t want to know. Don’t make this weird. It’s not about that.

But I do know she was involved in NAAFA, long before I was even born—back when the lines between what we now call body positivity and fat acceptance were just starting to be drawn. So, there’s this overlap, this strange connection that I can’t quite reconcile in my head. I’m not scared by what happened to her, but I am devastated by it. I don’t want this for anyone, and it’s hard to see the reality of what we talk about here through this lens. It’s hard to hold space for all of it.

I don’t know how to wrap this up neatly because there’s nothing neat about this. I’m grieving. I’m angry. I’m confused. But mostly, I’m just sad. Sad for her. Sad for me. Sad for a world that lets people like her slip through the cracks because they were deemed too much—too much to care for, too much to handle, too much to love.

But she wasn’t. She wasn’t too much. She was just enough. She was everything. And I miss her.

I hate that I feel the need to add this disclaimer, but before anyone starts chirping and taking things out of context—no, this doesn’t change anything for me, and I’m not going anywhere. I’m still here, still the same weirdo who loves being fat and getting fatter. It’s just… complicated. I’m sad. It’s sad. That’s all.

[johannestevans]

idk man frequently i talk to trans men and mascs who basically tell me that they came out as queer or nonbinary years ago, but were terrified to come out as men or transition in a way that would mean they were perceived as male even though the dysphoria was crushing

specifically bc of rejection from their communities, from other queer people, other trans people, bc men are bad and awful

like. a fella told me earnestly he read this essay about how masculinity isn't inherently toxic from another trans man and im so glad it was positive for him and gave him the courage to transition, but it was horrifying to me that he should be made to feel so disgusted by his own gender that he needed that

esp bc once you're out as queer you're already rejected by mainstream society, so other queers are all you have - the prospect of being ousted and rejected from those spaces bc you become A Man is naturally terrifying

and its literally just rad fem rhetoric of men and masculinity = evil and bad that's infected queer spaces like a festering mould. ppl do it to cis gay and queer men as well, and also just to nonbinary ppl they perceive as cis men bc they don't like their language etc, and to trans men and mascs

ppl are sometimes like. surprised. when i don't apologise for being a man and assert that loving men is natural and beautiful, and reject the appeal of womanhood or women

as if that's not queer enough when like ??? hi???? my attraction to other men IS the queerness?

[coryosbaby]

Cw: stepcest (stepbrother x stepsister), intoxication/drug use, a bit suggestive . Slight angst . Soft Rafe <3

Rafe, he thinks, fell in love with you before the drugs.

He shouldn’t of— and for obvious reason. You were perfect, an angel. But you were Rose’s daughter.

He tried to pry the thoughts away, at first. Tried not to think about your kindness, your innocence, your pretty eyes — your ass, your tits, your cunt. But it wasn’t long before they utterly consumed him.

Another day it was, in the Cameron household: Rafe, coming home, completely coked out of his mind, drunk, and clattering around in the kitchen. He didn’t know what he was looking for, just knows that it had something to do with a spoon and a jar of peanut butter.

It would’ve been almost funny if he didn’t look so distraught to you. When you came down the stairs you knew the noises were Rafe. He always did this; you’d have to clean him up, put him to bed— sometimes you’d cook for him. But that was when he was in your good graces.

“Rafe, what the fuck are you doing?” You groaned, rubbing your eyes sleepily. He hadn’t woken you up, but you were extremely tired. You had wanted to wait up for him because he promised to go on a 7/11 run with you when everyone was asleep and then watch a few movies.

And as usual, he broke his fucking promises.

It angered you, but when Rafe turned around and greeted you with that beautiful intoxicated smile, your frustration wavered when you saw the way his eyes seemed to light up.

“Hey, y/n!”

“Hi, Rafael.”

He frowned, knowing you only called him that when you were aggravated at him. He stumbled drunkly when he tried to approach you. You made sure to catch him by his arm.

“God, you’re wasted,” you said. “Do you feel sick?”

“I did…” he slurred. “But ‘m better now that my favorite girl is here.”

Your face became flushed at his words, but you pulled yourself out of your wandering thoughts and dragged the boy over to the couch. He plopped down onto the cushions, grunting.

“‘M tired..” he murmured.

“Gotta check you for any cuts, first.”

You usually checked him out so you could make sure he wasn’t fighting anyone or getting any bad injuries; he was likely to not even feel it until morning, and when he got a disgusting cut on his ankle once it had got infected and he had to be sent to the hospital. You’ve cleaned up his wounds since then.

And of course, taking his palm into your hand, you found that he had a medium sized cut on his palm. You sighed.

“Any idea how you got this?” You asked.

“No sir, doctor, sir.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me.”

It was true, but you just let out a scoff and went to get the first aid kit from one of the cabinets in the nearest bathroom. Pulling out the proper cleaning materials, you got on your knees in front of Rafe and began to care for his wound. He was almost in a daze as you did this; you looked even better when he did a line or two. He’d mistaken you for an angel quite a few times.

“You’re ‘s pretty.” He whispered.

You couldn’t help but smile. You didn’t say anything until you could see that his eyes were shut and his breathing had calmed. You looked up at him and lightly slapped the side of his cheek.

“Rafe— you can’t go to sleep yet.” You stated calmly. He opened his eyes, just a tiny bit, and a grin spread across his face when he saw your doe eyes staring up at him.

“Sorry, sweets. Couldn’t help it.”

You finally wrapped some gauze around his cut. Made sure to press a kiss to it. He always gave you hell if you didn’t.

“Cmon. Gotta get you upstairs.” you said.

Rafe yawned and stretched when he stood up, and you grabbed his hand so you could guide him up to his room. It was immediate when he saw his king sized bed, and he made sure to strip down to his briefs and climb under the covers. You tried not to stare too long at his chiseled chest or his pretty sculpted muscles. You were about to leave when his fingers grabbed your wrist and wrapped tightly around it.

“Stay,” he murmured. “Don’t want you to go, momma.”

The nickname isn’t one he used often, but on nights like this he let it slip up once or twice. You didn’t mind it; in fact, it was quite cute.

“I shouldn’t,” you replied.

“Please.”

You couldn’t say no when he begged like that, with those puppy dog eyes. You had already gotten into your pajamas earlier in the night and done your skincare routine so you didn’t really have anything left to do. You climbed in beside the boy, laid down beside his half naked body. You didn’t trust yourself or him to be in the same bed, but exhaustion was taking over you and you just wanted to sleep.

“Happy?”

“Mhm..”

He looked up at you, dazed. He stared at your lips almost intensely. It wasn’t long before his breath was hot against your lips and he was trying to lean in.

You move away from it, from his kiss. You couldn’t do that with him. You knew how wrong it was.

“Don’t. Please,” you murmured to him. Rafe looked saddened, pained, at your rejection.

“Give me one kiss,” he pleaded. His thumb came up to run over your bottom lip. Your face was on fire. “Just one, I promise. I can’t keep going on like this forever, without one kiss.”

You wanted to kiss him; you wanted it so badly that it hurt. You had wanted it since the first year that you moved in and saw him sitting at the kitchen counter with a bowl of cereal every morning. You’ had wanted him since he taught you how to roll your first joint, took you to your first high school party.

You always wanted him.

You gave him what he begged for. It was small, feather light and like angel wings against Rafe’s lips. He went back in for another one; he knew he promised just one, but as usual, the boy didn’t keep his promises.

You let him, though. And it felt nice. He peppered them along your neck, too, after that. You could smell the alcohol on his breath and the cologne he used as he did it. It left electric shocks along your skin.

After one more sloppy kiss against your jugular, he pulled away and buried his face into your neck sweetly.

You didn’t know how you were going to look at him in the morning. You didn’t know if he even remembered the next day.

He did, though. He remembered all of it. In fact, he made sure to get you back in his room and kiss you even more the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that.

You were so fucked.

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