…. Care to share what you were thinkin’ about Homelander …. ? (人 •͈ᴗ•͈) … ?
Omfg yeah yeah yeah yeah and this honestly has to go under the cut I don’t even want to see itSJFJEICJFIFJFCJ tw for incest kidnapping noncon and threats of murder and necro and cannibalism
I’m thinking about Daddy being every bit the psychotic insane murderer and rapist that he is in the comics/show and kidnapping his daughter to keep you in one of those Vaught compounds like Becca was in and playing house like you’re Dada’s little wifey🫶🏻💕
I’m thinking about Daddy being extra extra rough with you because he fucking made you and he’s allowed to do whatever the fuck he wants with your body. He tells you all about the sick ways he’d rip you in half and eat your insides. How he’d fuck your skull until he watched the lights go out in your fucking head. I could go on BUT I AM SPIRALING ALREADY SO DBCJDJDKCNFBC
@pupimouto asked: Necro with kita? 🥺 I bet he would be v gentle 💕
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all kita had wanted was for you to be his perfect, obedient, little housewife. he didn’t think it was much to ask for - in fact, you probably would’ve lived a much happier life by his side.
you hadn’t listened, had you?
it’s a shame you made him do this the hard way.
at least there’s one duty as his loving wife you can never shirk now. he lets out a soft moan, pushing slowly into your tight, cold, cunt, shuddering as he feels the drag of your sticky walls against the ridges of his cock. your body jolts limply at his thrusts, head lolling uselessly. his touch trails down your arm, and he laces his fingers in between yours, pressing your hand into the sheets. the action is tender, loving - kita adores you, after all, from this life and into the next.
his face is flushed red, glowing with a sheen of sweat, breath hitching as he stuffs you full and leaves you leaking. he’s wasting his load on your corpse - but he doesn’t mind, smearing your thighs and tummy until your blue-gray skin is warm to the touch.
it would’ve been better if you were still alive, of course, so you could feel the pleasure humming through your body as he fucks you deep and slow, or maybe so you could use that pretty little mouth or perfect hands to make him feel good.
but at the end of the day, he’d rather have you dead than gone forever. he tilts your head towards him, his gaze meeting your empty, lifeless, eyes, and a surge of affection twists in his gut. he thinks he’ll keep you like this for as long as possible, lying in his bed in the bridal veil he’d dressed you in - it’s begun to rip and tear, but he’s never going to take it off - at peace and blissfully unconscious as you rest in your forever sleep.
kita leans down, warm breath huffing against your cold, cracked, lips, and kisses you softly.
fairy fairy hear me out,, i just saw your kuroo thirst and my brain went to whether or not he would invite his friends over to fuck your unmoving drooling cunny. he's tried to explain that it just feels different, more satisfying to have you wrapped around him completely unknowing but his friends don't buy it. why wouldn't he want to listen to you crying out for him, doesn't he want to know if he's making you feel good? they even think he's sick for it,, until they take a turn
I’m hearing and seeing Raph, iM IN It
tw somno, gangbang, necro (? not really but alluding)
Bokuto, Akaashi, Kenma, even Hinata... they all know this is weird, or even wrong probably, but as long as it’s consensual it’s not really their place to speak on it, right? But Kuroo boasts about it so much, how good you feel, how sweetly you take him and how good you’ve gotten at pretending for him. It’s so fucked up, but isn’t only natural to be a little curious.
So when they all come over one night, they drink and have fun, and enjoy your company,, until Kuroo tells you to go to the bedroom and be a good ‘dead doll’ for him and his friends. Kuroo seems to glow when leading them behind you through the hall, like he’s more proud of this part of you than anything else. When they get there you’re on the bed, already stripped down to your lingerie.
Your tits covered in sheer lace, no rise and fall at all. Your legs are folded prettily to the side and your face is completely unmoving. Totally, so much it’s eerie. But Kuroo kneels next to you on the bed, brushing his hand up and down your tummy and in between your legs. “You can touch her, she’ll get wet real fast.” And they do, though more carefully than your boyfriend.
It really looks like you’re sleeping or worse, even your skin feels a little colder than normal. But then Kuroo tells Bokuto to kiss you, and for Kenma and Hinata to take off your minimal clothing and it’s not long before your legs are spread and Akaashi is driving his fat cock into your slicking cunt while everyone waits for their turn. “Fuck, she feels so good. It’s so fucking tight.”
Bokuto is using your mouth and you don’t even move, barely reacting when his cock hits the back of your throat and his thighs push onto your face. It’s hard to believe you’re even breathing anymore, Hinata is palming at your tits over and over again and sucking your nipples into his wet mouth. And Kuroo keeps stroking your hair so sweetly while he fucks his hand and waits for his turn to pump your unmoving, little cunt full of his cum, glad to have such a good baby girl.
hanahaki: the fictional disease where a person, afflicted by unrequited love, grows flowers in their lungs and stomach. unless the love is reciprocated, the disease will grow fatal. there's one workaround, though - one that issei matsukawa is very interested in: the plant can be physically removed.
wc: ~3.8k
tags/tw's(PLEASE PLEASE READ): n*fw, masturbation only(no sex), stalking, snuff, gore, blood, yandere!matsukawa, sorta necro(attraction but not sex), noncon filming, fem!reader but no mention of genitals
a/n: for @suedebunn's april showers collab // this is the most self-indulgent thing i've ever written and i spent way too long on it. it's supposed to lean towards horror?
i don't want minors interacting with my content
March 8th, 2013
[12:47 am]
The longer Issei sits outside your window, the harder it becomes to stop himself.
His face is pressed up against the dusty glass pane, peering inside at the outline of your sleeping body, and he finds that he can’t help but fixate on it. You look so peaceful, so tranquil, completely at rest as your mind flits between the shadowy realms that dreams inhabit.
He wonders what kind of wonderland you’re in right now - if it’s cotton-candy pink and delightful, just like you, or dark and hazy and spun with danger.
You’d look beautiful in any setting, he thinks, and finds his hand inadvertently drifting downwards.
His gaze rakes over the rise and fall of your chest, taking in the flashes of bare skin where your sheer nightgown rides up, his breath catching as his palm glides over his clothed cock. The friction feels so good - there’s no question that he wants this, needs this - and he wastes no time unzipping his pants and reaching in to free his dick. He doesn’t need to fantasize much, not when you’re mere feet away, instead making sure he sears every detail of your sleeping form into his mind: your fluttering eyelashes, your shallow breaths, the soft glow of your skin in the moonlight.
Issei quickens his pace, stroking up and down the shaft of his cock with purpose, thumb flicking over the slit. His breath huffs against the glass, clouding the surface until it’s dripping with condensation, but he still sees you as clear as day in his mind even as the real image of you blurs. You’re blissed out and relaxed, shoulders free of tension, your lips curving slightly into a smile.
He closes his eyes, rolling his head back as he works his cock, every single brush of his fingers leaving him twitching with sensitivity. You look like an angel, picture-perfect and frozen in time and consciousness, as if you were a framed picture or a museum exhibit preserved just for Issei to admire. Just for Issei. He lets out a quiet groan at the thought as he cums, his hips stuttering and cock jerking up.
You turn over fitfully in your sleep.
Looking down at the cum dripping off his fingers, he wants nothing more than to crawl in through your window and wipe it on your face. It’s an unmistakable mark of ownership, a sign that you belong to him alone, but he hesitates. He’s a bit of a shy guy, you see.
He can wait.
-
March 14th, 2013
[10:01 pm]
He has to conceal himself a bit better tonight than he would on his normal visits. This time, he’s a bit early, and you’re still awake.
His back is up against the siding of your house, right beside your window, but he can still see you in the periphery of his vision. You’re sitting at your desk, bathed in the warm light of your desk lamp, hunched over some math worksheet and scribbling furiously with the pencil in your hand.
Forget the moon; you glow even prettier as the world around you fades to dark.
Just like every other night, he takes in every detail meticulously. Your hair is messier than it was the previous day - maybe you hadn’t washed it in a while? He doesn’t mind, because it’s endearing when you’re messy and imperfect, barefaced in your pajamas, a little rough around the edges.
He thinks it’s similar to the way you’d look after being fucked stupid, if he closed his eyes and tried to picture you being ruined.
Issei tries very hard to ignore the way his cock strains in his pants at the thought.
-
March 23, 2013
[11:30 pm]
The mild spring breeze carries the sweet scent of fresh blossoms and green grass, leaving behind the wintry chill that he had to shiver through each night to be at your side - well, as close by your side as he could get.
These little visits have become a part of his life now, as ingrained as waking up in the morning or eating three times a day. It’s comforting for him to watch you from his spot outside your window each night, admiring you as you go about your nighttime routine, puttering from your desk to your bathroom to your bedroom.
He’s started to take some pictures, maybe even a shaky, pixelated video or two, just to tide him over when he’s alone by himself. They’re no replacement for the real thing, obviously, but it’s enough for him to be able to carry around a reminder of the way you look and sound all the time, even if it’s just a shadow of what you’re like in person. He’ll scroll through his camera roll, fingers trembling with excitement, hissing as he brings his hand down to stroke at his cock.
It’s always better in person, though. He sees you more clearly, hears the sound of your voice muffled through the walls, and most of all, he’s closer to you.
Issei likes to make it last, likes to prolong the pleasure as much as possible, so he always starts off with slow, gentle, pumps, gliding up and down his cock with his index finger and thumb curled into a circle. It’s honestly a miracle how you haven’t noticed yet, because he always tends to lose himself after he starts.
Face pressed close against the window in order to get the best view possible, his warm huffs of breath cloud up the cold glass as he strokes himself faster. His eyes rolling back into his head, his two digits of measured stimulation give way quickly to full, hard, pumps of his cock until soft moans start to spill from his mouth.
It’s hard to resist when you’re right there.
Tonight, you’re sprawled out on your bed, phone held above your face as you chat with your friend on video call. You’re shaking with laughter at some silly joke your friend’s telling, head thrown back and chin tilted upwards, face shining with joy, and he suddenly feels a warm, warm feeling of arousal course through him.
Seeing you happy turns him on, makes his cock so hard even though he just came minutes prior.
The sound of your voice carries through the walls, carefree and bright, chattering on and on about some assignment - or maybe it’s a complaint about the teacher, he’s not too sure - and he smiles contentedly at your silly little worries. Too cute, really.
You suddenly cough.
It’s an ugly sound, dry and strangled, and he cringes at the way your body tenses up and shakes. The coughing fit feels far longer than it actually is; every second of your hacking and wheezing is compounded by the panic gripping him. He watches, helpless, as your face turns ashen and grey, his heart seizing with dread and pounding in his chest.
It’s over as quickly as it begins.
You smile weakly, brushing it off as you apologize to your friend, but he can’t shake the uneasy feeling that settles at the pit of his stomach. He tugs up his pants, bare thighs and dick feeling awfully exposed in the night wind, and scurries back home. Maybe another night, then.
-
April 1st, 2013
[12:09 am]
You’re not in your room today.
Issei leans his head against the cold glass of your windowpane, hands shoved into his jacket, his mind clouding at the edges and overrun with possibilities. He doesn’t recall seeing you making plans with friends the previous night, and there’s not much you could be really doing right now - you have no boyfriend, no plans that he knows of, no real reason to just be gone.
He’s always thought of himself as a calm person. He doesn’t fall victim to temporary urges and flights of emotion the same way that Oikawa or Iwaizumi might, doesn’t do anything reckless on whims he knows will disappear just hours later.
But there’s just something about you that always makes him lose himself, isn’t there?
The window is fogged up with condensation, obscuring his view inside your room. He reaches out the sleeve of his jacket, wiping away the dew clinging to the surface, and squints as he tries to make out the scene in the dim lighting.
On the floor, awash in a pool of moonlight, lies a yellow flower petal spattered with blood.
-
April 4th, 2013
[4:46 am]
Issei’s not stupid.
He knows what the flower petal means, knows what your sickness means. He’s read about it in books, heard the tales from his parents friends, the whispered legends and hushed myths that make one thing clear:
You belong to someone else.
It’s a thought that fills him with revulsion. You already have Issei; is he not enough for you? Are you such a whore that his devotion falls short of what you’re so clearly greedy for?
He’s stopped restricting himself to just his nightly visits. They’re not enough, not when he can’t seem to go five minutes without his thoughts inevitably drifting to you - you in your fluttery, sheer nightgown, lying in your bed, your frame growing sicker and frailer as the blood drains from your cheeks and your coughing fits grow more frequent.
You can hide it from the prying eyes of your friends at school, from your teachers, even from your parents(as long as you make sure to roll your eyes a few times and lean into that murky, illusory persona of teenage angst), but here in your bedroom, your sanctuary, all your vulnerabilities crawl out and bubble to the surface, bared to your four off-white walls and his eyes only.
You can’t hide this from Issei; not the symptoms, and certainly not the disease.
He sets his alarm every day early enough to hear the nighttime croaking of frogs, the shrill, insistent chirping of cicadas, hours before the sky bleeds daylight, making his way over to your house. He stands outside, silent, his fingers pressed up against the window.
He doesn’t know why he goes anymore. You look ugly when you’re sick. Your healthy complexion has given way to grey, and his dick goes limp every time he tries to jerk himself off. It’s a reminder of the fact that he can’t ever have you the way he used to dream about: lively, healthy, and wholly devoted to him and him alone.
At this point, the pictures and videos of you are the only thing he has left, a pitiful reminder of everything you used to be. He has no use for those other girls from porn sites online, or even the scantily clad social media posts of his classmates. Issei only wants you, but you aren’t quite who you used to be, and every time he trudges home after staring through that stupid window, there’s always a bitter aftertaste in his mouth that makes his blood curdle.
It’s not that he’s jealous, exactly. He doesn’t really give a fuck who you’re pining after, because it’s you he cares about. He wants to own you, to possess your body, mind, and soul, wants you to end up at his side one day, acknowledging him with tears brimming in your lovely eyes, voice raw and hoarse as you chant thank you Issei, thank you, thank you for watching over me, Issei, i’m yours, Issei, i love you, Issei
Maybe it’s no wonder he can’t stop thinking about you.
-
April 19th, 2013
[11:52 pm]
He finds you passed out on the floor, surrounded by crumpled piles of faded carnation petals. They’re a sickly yellow, browning at the edges, tinged with blood and vomit and spit. It’s a scene straight out of a movie, illuminated by the waning moon, the cold, pale, uneven light casting shadows that dance across your body.
-
April 24th, 2013
[2:03 am]
Issei is nothing if not a practical man. If there’s a problem, he’s going to fix it.
He’s had enough of waiting, anyway.
-
April 25th, 2013
[12:00 am]
He’s never actually been inside your room before. It’s eerily quiet, save for your shallow, rapid breaths, all outside noises absorbed by the walls and curtains. It almost feels like he’s dreaming as he makes his way over to your bedside, his shadow stretching and bending in the distorted light like those funhouse mirror reflections.
Your lips are parted slightly, mouth agape as if in waiting, and he can’t help but run a finger along your cracked, ashen lips.
Issei shivers.
He’s never been quite so close to you before. It’s almost anticlimactic, the way he ends up at your side. He won’t lie; he had been hoping for a different ending, one with more sunshine and roses, one where you’d be smiling happily by his side as he tenderly holds your hand.
But he can’t change the way things are, and he’s more than willing to make the best of what he’s got.
He doesn’t have any surgical tools that might’ve been more fitting, but he supposes a kitchen knife - one he’d sharpened just yesterday - should work well enough. He runs a finger along the back of the gleaming metal, admiring the way it glints, brilliant and blinding, even in the midst of the dim room.
The old, worn, bed creaks beneath him as he climbs carefully on top of you, straddling your torso, taking care not to place too much pressure on your body. He reaches out to caress your face, brushing a loose strand of hair aside as he appraises you. In sickness, you were nowhere near as beautiful as you were before, but your proximity almost makes up for it; Issei can feel your heart thrumming beneath your skin, can feel the huff of your breath on his hand as your chest rises and falls.
He almost regrets having to do this.
Bringing the blade up to your chest, he begins to cut through your paper-thin nightgown. As the fabric rips, it falls to either side to reveal your chest, and his breath catches. The soft curve of your tits are stained with red, little green buds of growth peeking out from your chest and between your ribs. Blood blooms across your skin, thorns and stems pricking out from the smooth surface of your skin, standing out in stark relief as the sick, twisted, unnatural growth threatens to burst out of your body.
He flutters his fingers along your delicate skin, trailing gentle touches down your stomach, completely absorbed in the way you look and feel.
So absorbed, in fact, that he almost doesn’t notice the way you tense, eyes blinking awake, as pain lances through your body.
Issei’s quick, though - far quicker than you, at least, and by the time you open your mouth to scream, fear catching in your throat, he shoves a large hand over your mouth to muffle any of the unpleasant noises that threaten to spill out.
“Shh,” he whispers, voice hoarse and foreign in his own chest. He’s not used to speaking to you. “If you don’t hold still, it’s going to hurt even more.”
You freeze in terror at the implications of his words, eyes catching on the blade pointed at your chest. There’s a sudden urge to lash out, to fight back - but it quickly passes. You’re not stupid.
You know that he’s far stronger than you, far faster, and as his calm, remorseless gaze latches onto your body, you realize very quickly that any resistance would be futile.
He begins his work as soon as he feels you go limp beneath him. You’re still trembling slightly, shivering from both the fear and the cold, completely exposed, completely at his mercy. You’re still not sure who he is; maybe you’ve caught a glimpse or two of him in your classes in the past, but for the most part, he’s still a complete stranger.
Issei, on the other hand, knows you very well.
As the knife slips beneath your soft flesh, your bed quickly turns into a sea of scarlet, of vermilion and ruby, of wine-red blood that grows from a trickle to a stream to a rushing, spurting mess that stains your sheets and spills onto the floor. He can feel the spatters of your blood on his face, his clothes, can see the periphery of his vision growing red as the blank, white walls turn crimson.
He finds it’s a bit difficult to hold himself back.
Cutting you up feels like catharsis to him. He’s never seen you quite like this before, but he thinks this version of you looks very pretty, your eyes rolling back into your head, your chest shaking uncontrollably as he rips his knife through your flesh over and over again. A small, barely audible whimper slips from your lips, and he feels a shuddering mix of pleasure and revulsion wash over him.
The stark white of your bone peeks through the ripped, bloody mess. Perhaps he’s finally gone far enough.
There’s no slit or hole for him to find - he wasn’t quite so careful - but he reaches a hand in to dig around at what used to be your stomach, and begins to pull out the flowers from the roots. They’ve spread to your lungs, climbed almost all the way up your throat, the green stems and yellow flowers twisting and threading between your organs and ribs. He removes them one by one, meticulous and careful, tossing them aside as he searches and prods and kills every last trace of your disease.
The lungs are by far the hardest for him, the branches of tissue packed densely with blood vessels and capillaries, and he has to pry the clusters apart to remove the growth that’s embedded itself within the organ.
If you think about it, he’s really doing you a favor.
A wave of relief courses through him when he’s finally finished. It’s unfortunate that it had to end this way, with your face screwed permanently into that pained, tortured expression, but it’s nothing he can’t fix - he brings a bloody finger up and adjusts your features until they resemble something slightly more pleasant.
There’s no heartbeat anymore, he realizes, no rhythm thrumming and pulsing beneath your skin.
He climbs off of you awkwardly, swinging his legs back over the bed. The quilt, pooled around your ankles, is still remarkably clean considering what the rest of the room had been through, and he pulls the soft, white cover over your mangled body until it comes up to your chin.
If he moves backwards a little and squints, it’s almost like you’re still asleep.
And if he tries really hard, uses his imagination to fill in the gaps and blot out the unnecessary bits, the blood smeared on your cheeks and lips almost seems like makeup, covering up that ugly, ashen complexion from your sickness, like a rosy imitation of what he used to find so beautiful.
Maybe it’s all in his mind, but he thinks you really do look better dead than sick.
He knows it’s not right.
He knows he shouldn’t.
He also can’t quite bring himself to care.
Cursing softly under his breath, he hand wanders until it finds the growing outline of the bulge in his pants. It feels so good to do it right in front of you, especially when you look better than he’d seen you in weeks(as long as he sort of squints), and he shudders with pleasure as he palms his cock slowly.
He usually likes to hold back a little, but there’s really no point this time - it’s the last time he’ll ever be this close to you, so he might as well make the best of it, right?
His cock is rock hard and dripping with precum by now, straining with arousal against the pressure of his fist, gliding and stroking along his curved, thick length until he begins to feel that warm heat coiling in his stomach. He kind of wishes that you were still alive to see him jerking off to your perfect face, pumping his cock desperately as he fixates on the fake blush of your skin. It’s almost exactly how you look before you fell sick - minus the gore splattered on your sheets, of course - as long as he pretends that you’re still breathing, that your pulse is still thrumming steadily beneath those soft, white quilts.
He fists his cock a bit faster, rhythm increasing as he feels his balls growing heavier, his dick flushed and desperate for release. Although he’s sad that you’d never be able to fully participate, he supposes it’s for the best.
Better dead than hung up on someone else, right?
As he turns his gaze back onto the flowers he’d ripped out from your chest cavity, he feels a perverse burst of pleasure coursing through him. He can’t help but feel proud of the way he’s made everything right, how he’d gotten rid of that annoying little crush you’d been harboring for weeks. If he closes his eyes, he can almost see the way you’re thanking him from the afterlife, tears of gratitude and joy in your eyes at the freedom he’s finally given you.
Issei finishes with a low, pleasured, groan, his cum spilling into his waiting hand as he strokes himself through his orgasm. It’s one of the strongest orgasms he’s had in quite some time, and he can’t help but think it’s the commemoration you deserve.
As the blood rushing in his eardrums slows, the hazy, uncertain world around him seems to stop spinning, and he feels himself being pulled back down from his high. If he strains his senses, he can hear the nighttime din through your walls, quiet and ever-present. He looks outside, the streetlamps flickering dimly, staring off into the inky stillness of the star-lit night.
Funny that he’s finally on the other side of your window.
Maybe he should leave you one last present.
-
April 26th, 2013
[9:00 am]
When they find you in your bed the next morning, your mother screams and your father cries.
They never saw it coming, did they? You were a good girl, someone who always did what they were supposed to do, said what others told them to say, acted exactly how they expected you to. Never got yourself into the slightest hint of trouble.
It’s a horrific scene: their precious daughter, limbs mangled and organs torn up, stomach and chest cut wide open as if straight from a horror movie. The room seems to swirl with hostility, and the four walls, once your sanctuary, had turned into an image of brutal, bloody, violence - with your body as the centerpiece.
It’s not until they step closer that they realize the dried, white, glaze on your face is cum.
Kuroo has a thing for your sleeping face. And it’s not weird or anything, it’s not even his fault. You always send him pictures at night, to get him through the long last hours of his day. Just- by the time he gets home, you’re always curled up in the couch or in bed in your pretty little outfits, and you just look so fucking perfect for him. So he gets a little bit of a habit of jerking off to and cumming on your pretty sleeping face, playing with your wet cunny and tits all while you don’t move a muscle. His baby girl is just so easy for him, you’re dripping all over his hand and cock even in your sleep. And after a while it doesn’t feel as good when you’re wide awake like that, so he just tapes your mouth shut and tells you to ‘play dead’, or slips some pills into your drink to make you fall asleep in his lap on weekends off. That way he can use your perfect drooling pussy or your open mouth as much as he wants to without having you ask him to slow down.
i remember there was a snuff fic i read a few years ago and now im thinking abt it it was soooo before its time…. it was so aerion… something something throat fucking through a slit throat something something…
