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Virtued, but you know me as VICE. NSFTblog - neurotic & necrotic ramblings.

[meatcleaveher]

The Patron Saint of scorned lovers, fallen teeth, and rotting meat. Intro below.

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┊⋮ ⌗ --- Gehenna. 25.

┊⋮ ⌗ --- Bisexual. Dom/verse.

┊⋮ ⌗ --- No TWs. Fantasy/taboo.

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⋮ ⌗ I am: brutalist sadist, adrenaline-junkie, erotic deviant.

⋮ ⌗ I like: a challenge/ reading between the lines/ copious amounts of violence.

⋮ ⌗ I want: blood. A pound of flesh. Devotion, debasement, and a shrine in my name.

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Approach with caution. Tributes are accepted in blood and muscle. Hedonistic; I enjoy beautiful things, places, people. I will post dead dove, disturbing, and taboo themes.

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╰┈➤ Twitter: x.com/MEATCLEAVEHER

╰┈➤ Tellonym: tellonym.me/gehennam

╰┈➤ find me. I'm wherever the breeze stops.

[meatcleaveher]

It's difficult to remember to be present here. I'm more active on x, but whatever. Whatever, whatever. Bird song and bad reception; low signal and the doppler reverb of borrowed tinnitus. Let me listen.

[meatcleaveher]

Thinking about the SD card of an abandoned camcorder. Bland scenery in sage green and sepia tones - until you come into the picture.

Shaky frame of the video brightening and dimming from amateur hands. Desperate hands. As always, with your oblivious nature, you're sleeping soundly as he gets closer. As we get closer, my eyes glued to the screen. Too close. Your bedroom flickers in the greys of soft moonlight.

Soft and sweet in your favourite pyjamas - we know all of your favourites now, spools of film tucked into well-worn pockets - and as clueless as ever. Clumsy, naive, searingly hot.

It feels like I'm him, we're one, as he reaches out in the video. To touch you. Breaking that impossible barrier. The video seems to flash by quicker, now - neutrals overtaken by red.

You're so close to the camcorder that we can hear the way your breathing hitches. The fluttering of adrenaline against your throat - the same throat against our hands - and suddenly, we can't hear anything but the choked gasping of the truly desperate. We can't tell if it's you, or us.

It doesn't make a difference. One hand gets greedy, reaching for you, and the view skews sideways. We tumble onto your patterned bedsheets. Together, finally. On film and in flesh. The lens cracks as the video tenses; you scream, and we split apart as the file corrupts.

[aliceofthewolves10]

unsolicited self harm or blood pics are always welcome in my dms

[meatcleaveher]

The dark, dank walls of your newfound prison seem to sap the energy from your bones quicker than vomiting on his- on his... on him, quicker than the beatings or the starvation. Weeks of missed meals and drinking his spit have turned your muscles to jelly. The IV, its glossy bag strung up near the ceiling and out of your reach, seems to suck the light out of the room and into itself. It's meant to help. He said you were no fun like this, dead without the satisfaction of a kill, but why is your head spinning - why do the walls spin? Once you've slipped from the filthier cot to the cold floor, your useless limbs not even twitching from shock, you realise that he wasn't helping get the fight back into you. He was sapping the last of it out. Paralysed, and now entirely helpless at his hands. There's no way out.

[suturemesweetly]

[vileputridity]

Rapist who realizes he’s falling in love with his past victim because he can’t stop masturbating to the memory of her. Rapist who uses the same pair of ripped up panties he stole from her as a cum rag to jerk off into every single time, because it gives him a high like no other. Rapist who took polaroids of her while she was tied up, and now he keeps them everywhere - in his wallet, in the glove box of his car, tacked to the ceiling above his bed. Rapist whose cock throbs every single time he remembers something about that night; the way she cried, the way she was dressed, her scent, the feel of her skin against his. Rapist who eventually caves to his own obsession and starts stalking that same victim again, after all that time had passed, because there’s just something about her. She’s just too perfect for him. She’s stuck in his head and won’t ever leave. She was the best girl he ever had. She’s the one.

[meatcleaveher]

Sex toy chest that is stuffed with used tools. Old bloodsplatters dried and flaking, stained along stainless steel dental tools. Rust setting in at the crease of pliers, and along where the tips kiss. Orbitoclasts and miscellaneous picks in bad shape - dented and warped from play - crusting with brain matter clinging to the sharpened points.

[meatcleaveher]

I want to blow the bitch's head open and use her brain matter to slick up my cock.

[meatcleaveher]

I want to slit his throat as he cums. His tight cunt convulsing around me, spasming in death throes. His eyes rolling back in his head as he squirts arterial blood, soaking my front. Slicked where we meet.

Our gentle coupling is at odds with the violent rattle of his chest. Letting blood slick us both, so that I can breed his cunt one last time before it forever grows cold.

[meatcleaveher]

Group eyeball mutilation session in my bed. All are welcome.

[meatcleaveher]

I want to push someone to the brink. To self-destruction, to violent mutilation, to single-minded pursuit.

I want empty eyes. Hollow, longing, desperation so tangible I can taste it in their every word. Nothing is too much for them, not for me. Baring their soul and their skin, detached entirely from humiliation or shame.

There's only me: the bright light at the end of their tunnel vision. The chance of reciprocation carrying the risk of death.