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whatitshouldvebeen · 13 hours

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Why Do People Like Yanderes?

Hi everyone, my name is Diya, and this was going to be a YT video-essay-type-thing but I'm too poor to afford a mic and too busy with college to learn how to edit videos, so here's my vague exploration of the psychology behind why people like yanderes so much through the lens of my favourite Visual Novels.

TW for uh. yandere content. Mentions of sex, gore, and non-con, particularly in the last topic. This is more like the first draft of an academic paper so while it's not explicit, I do go into some detail.

Introduction

If you’re a fan of anime or visual novels, then you’re probably already aware of what a yandere is, or at the very least you’ve seen that one picture of Yuno Gasai. Still, for the sake of thoroughness, let’s take it from the tippy top. The term ‘yandere’ is a Japanese portmanteau of ‘yanderu’ – the progressive form of ‘yami’ – meaning ‘sick’, and ‘deredere’ which roughly translates to ‘loving’. Together, the word refers to someone who is – in short – extremely lovesick. Obsessive to the extreme, and with little morality to spare, the standard yandere is characterized by a dangerous fixation on a chosen target, often appearing shy and caring at first only to flip the script and become violently aggressive towards perceived threats (Kroon, 2010).

It should be noted that yanderes are not a strictly romantic or sexual trope. The Ancient Greeks classified at least six forms of love, from familial (storge) to guests (xenia). Modern psychologists may distinguish love as either Companionate or Passionate (Kim & Hatfield, 2004) or consisting of three dimensions of Intimacy, Passion, and Commitment (Sternberg & Sternberg, 2018). Realistically, possessiveness shows up in a variety of relationships. However, people are generally primed to view certain dynamics as inherently amorous. Societal norms tend to encourage the idea that romantic bonds ought to rank above all others, and therefore if Person A is bizarrely fixated on Person B, then clearly there must be an element of sexual interest involved regardless of the actual relationship between the individuals in question.

Regardless, yanderes remain quite popular in fiction. Many dismiss it as a fetish, which it can be, but that isn’t the case for everyone. While there is nothing wrong with indulging in kinky fiction, not all of us get horny at the thought of being chained up in someone’s basement, no matter how hot our captor may be. So why is it so pervasive? Why is this trope so appealing that most writers cannot help but include at least a single line of dialogue implying that – if circumstances had been ever so slightly different – my wholesome shoujo romcom might have turned into a psychological horror?

Hybristophilia

‘Hybristophilia’, also known as Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome after the titular criminal couple, is a word is derived from the Greek word ‘hybridzein’ meaning ‘to commit an outrage against someone’ and ‘philo’ which means ‘a strong preference for’. Sexologist John Money reportedly defined it as a paraphilia in which an individual is sexually aroused by a partner who has a predatory history of hurting other people (Money, 1986, as cited in Matuszak, 2017). In his book, Serial Killer Groupies, true crime and crime fiction author RJ Parker distinguished two forms of hybristophilia: passive and aggressive. The former is when an individual contacts a criminal with the intention of striking up a relationship with them, allowing themselves to be seduced and manipulated but having no interest in committing a crime themselves. The latter are far more dangerous, as the individual not only derives sexual pleasure from their partner’s atrocities but are active participants in carrying out or covering up the crime. To quote Griffiths (2013, as cited in Pettigrew, 2019):

“[They] help out their lovers with their criminal agenda by luring victims, hiding bodies, covering crimes, or even committing crimes. They are attracted to their lovers because of their violent actions and want to receive love yet are unable to understand that their lovers are psychopaths who are manipulating them.”

In some ways, hybristophilia is the nearest thing we have to a realistic understanding of why people love yanderes. I mean, much of the fantasy surrounding such characters and their media tend to be filled with posts begging to be spat on or calling the rightfully terrified main character ungrateful for being a teeny bit upset about finding surveillance cameras in their ceiling. However, enjoying fictitious immoral activity does not predict real perpetration, so what does? There exists little consensus amongst psychologists as to what sparks this particular predilection, and that was strange to me. You would think there would be more studies into this topic, in spite of or perhaps because of its controversial nature. Heck, that one dude wouldn’t shut up about white women’s obsession with Bundy and Dahmer, and I assumed he had gotten that information from somewhere, but it turns out that was just him using modifiers to justify sexism.

However, I believe that we can hedge a few guesses, and over the course of my research, I’ve organized the main rationalizations under four umbrellas which I will explore through the lens of my favourite yandere-themed Visual Novels. Please keep in mind that most of these games are rated as mature due to sexual scenes and/or gore. Additionally, in the spirit of transparency, this ramble will be focused exclusively on male or masculine yanderes. So, without further ado:

Call Me Bob the Builder Because I Can Fix Them

If you’re familiar with DC Comic’s Batman, or just happen to have attended any costume event held over the span of the last 20+ years, you may be familiar with the character of Dr. Harleen Quinzel, better known as Harley Quinn. Initially created as the Joker’s one-off sidekick in Batman The Animated Series, she was so well-received by audiences that she became a recurring character in the cartoon and was eventually given a proper origin story in the form of a one-shot titled Mad Love.

Harley’s origin story has seen some alterations over the past decades, but the core aspects remain largely untouched. In the beginning, Harleen Quinzel was a promising young woman who wanted was a degree from the university’s prestigious psychology department, which she gained through…less than scrupulous means.

(Listen, I’m not sure if the authors were leaning on the Dumb Blonde stereotype, or if they simply thought that casting her as a genuinely bad student would make her later actions more believable. Either way, the idea of Harley as someone with a legitimate PhD came later)

After landing an internship at Arkham Asylum – a half-hospital and half-prison straight out of the 1870s that might as well be built out of one-ply tissue-paper soaked with gasoline and left next to a crate of fireworks – Harleen set her sights on the then incarcerated Joker. At the start, her fixation on the criminal wasn’t remotely sympathetic. She didn’t want to help him, she wanted to use him. Harleen Quinzel wanted piggyback off his infamy and write a tell-all tale detailing what sort of messed up childhood resulted in Gotham’s Clown Prince of Crime. Yet the more she interacted with him, the more the Joker took advantage of her empathy. By the end of their sessions, Harley no longer saw him as a violent serial killer with a clown schtick, but as a “lost, injured child looking to make the world laugh at his antics.”

But Diya, you may be asking, what does this have to do with the video? The Joker never loved Harley, and it could even be argued – as Shehadeh did in a 2017 essay – that her obsession with the pasty-faced clown is more akin to Histrionic Personality Disorder. While that may be the case, I believe that Harley’s story provides one of the reasons yanderes are so popular: their backstory.

Whether they were abandoned by their family, bullied by their peers, experimented on by evil scientists, starved on the streets, died under mysterious circumstances and then trapped in a haunted VCR tape for decades, or are simply so impossibly inhuman that they frankly do not understand why it isn’t socially acceptable to imprison their crush in a pocket dimension made of meat and non-Euclidean geometry, yanderes often have fairly sympathetic or at least understandable explanations for why they are Like That. Your mileage may vary significantly depending on how much you sympathize with these motives, but the point is that yanderes always make sense to some degree. Their morality and priorities may be twisted or even completely incomprehensible, but the audience almost always knows the reason, and that can be comforting. In the real world, other people aren’t always straightforward, and we never really know what they’re thinking, but narrative coherence demands a semblance of internal consistency lest the audience end up frustrated and confused. So yanderes are not only easy to sympathize with, but also fairly predictable. In-universe they may be unhinged freaks with a blood fetish, but to you watching from behind the safety of the screen they’re just acting out the script written for them based on a prototype. And if you understand the why behind their loose gears, then you might just be able to put them back together again.

The concept of rescue romances or “I Can Fix Them” has been around in our stories for thousands of years. The Epic of Gilgamesh detailed how Shamhat essentially ‘civilized’ wild man Enkidu through ritual lovemaking, and a concerning number of religions push the idea that women are dutybound to save men from the follies of sin. Yet men are not exempt either, with one notable example being the German fairytale, King Thrushbeard. Call it what you will regardless: Knights in Shining Armour, the Florence Nightingale Effect, or a plain old case of Because You Were Nice to Me, studies have shown that human beings generally like helping [DA2] others, even when the reason doesn’t necessarily stem from pure altruism. I will delve deeper into this later, but care and compassion are deeply ingrained in human nature, and arising from those roots is the appeal of this mentality: You can save them. You can change them. You can make them better. You are special, and the way you treat this person carries a weight that has not and will never be matched by anyone else for the rest of their mortal or immortal existence.

The illusion is a delicious one, especially if the person you’ve helped turns out to be a billionaire CEO with cash to burn, a super powerful ghost king willing to raze continents to dust for you, a demon having fun on a Friday night, or just your average hot creep with a knife. Moreover, different people have different ideas of what ‘fixing’ even means. Maybe you want to single-handedly rehabilitate your yandere into a functional member of society. Maybe you’re cool with the incessant stalking but would like them to stop slaughtering your friends, family, and local service workers. Maybe you want to make them much, much worse.

Not only do yanderes provide immediate proof that your actions have a tangible impact on the lives of others, but the fantasy also includes the desire of being seen as special. Of being admired and adored by someone whose life you inexplicably made better by virtue of simply being yourself, or an idealized version of yourself. In this fictional world, in this imaginary setting, the person you are is so uniquely, impossibly irreplaceable to someone. And if that’s the case then they can’t risk losing you, can they?

The Allure of Obsession, or ‘Til Death Do Us Part (Literally)

It shouldn’t be necessary, but here is my obligatory disclaimer anyway. Ahem: obsession is not a good thing in real life. Fixating on another human to the detriment of your own wellbeing and that of those around you is dangerous, as is encouraging someone else to obsess over you. You might think you are being worshiped, but real life is not a visual novel. The outside world doesn’t come with an age rating, the author’s guiding pen, and a convenient fade to credits sequence once you’ve reached an ending. The consequences will still be there in the morning, so don’t do it. Just don’t.

PSA out of the way, it’s natural to want to be wanted. Maslow’s Hierarchy places it just above physical safety, but I’d argue that it could easily be compared to baser drives. According to many psychological and anthropological studies, much of humanity’s continued survival and environmental dominance is largely attributed to our ability to form groups, cooperate with one another, and maintain complex interpersonal networks. Social support, intimacy, and a sense of belonging are linked to emotional and physical benefits, such as more optimistic health perceptions, higher subjective well-being, increased creativity and innovation, and greater self-efficacy (DeWall & Bushman, 2011; Harandi et al., 2017; Wang & Sha, 2018). Therefore, it’s perfectly understandable that rejection of any sort would be construed as a threat.

But if someone is obsessed with you, then you have no reason to worry about that, right? No more nights spent agonizing over how they feel about you, asking yourself whether your last text made you sound too desperate, or if you’re boring them because you spent the past hour info-dumping about Stardew Valley farm layouts. With a yandere, there will never be any doubt that they care about you. Sure, they might go about it in weird, manipulative, and insidious ways that violate your physical and mental autonomy, but you can’t deny their loyalty. They do love you in their own bizarre way. You are the sun around which they orbit. When you’re in the room, no one else exists. Every single messy flaw is just another bullet point on the mile-long list of why they adore you.

In essence, yanderes are not only attentive, but their love can be virtually unconditional. A yandere might know everything about you, and still revere you. It’s unhealthy as hell and you might genuinely question their taste, but it can be tempting to pretend that all of you, right down to the ugliest parts of yourself – the traits and choices that you would never share with another living soul even at gunpoint – are worthy of understanding, if not open praise and affection.

Attractiveness, or Okay but Have You Considered That They’re Hot Though?

I mean what am I supposed to say here? They’re hot, what do you want from me?

No, but in all seriousness, fictional media paints an idealized version of the world, and most yanderes are hot because they have the freedom of existing purely behind that screen; artfully arranged and edited to forever appear compelling to anyone who happens to enjoy their particular style. And there are a lot of styles to choose from. Whether you want them pretty faced and disarmingly cute, or scarred up and big enough to pin you like a butterfly, yanderes come in a wide variety of shapes and sizes that are meant to pique your interest and draw you in like a naïve little fish being lured towards the mouth of an angler fish, unwilling to believe that anything bad might happen to us when the bait is this pretty.

This is often referred to as the Halo Effect, a form of cognitive bias referring to the tendency for people to assume that a single obvious positive trait must be associated with other positive traits. The go-to characteristic is typically physical attractiveness, but a nice voice, good humour, and cooking skills are also factors which serve to influence our perceptions.

So, conventional physical attractiveness is one thing, but that’s only skin deep. What about beyond that? After all, the yandere still has to talk to you before they enact their master plan of tying you up in their basement until Stockholm Syndrome kicks in.

When I showed my friend a picture of John Doe from the game John Doe, she told me that he looked like a creepy slob, and she’s far from the only person who’s ever thought so. Look at them. I feel like if I tried to comb that hair it would simply eat me, and some of the CGs really put the scopophobia in Scopophobia Studios. I love Doe, but he is not hot, and he doesn’t behave in a normally appealing way either. If the player chooses not to take a bath, Doe will immediately comment that you “smell good” before following you home, breaking into your house, and leaving a bloody organ on the floor for the player to trip over. Many yanderes can at least fake a veneer of normalcy, but from the get-go Doe doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s anything less than an otherworldly creature stuffed into a vaguely person-shaped meatsuit. In an effort to find out why so many people had latched on to Doe – including me – I shopped around social media and YouTube for answers, and what I found was a widely unanimous sentiment.

While some were drawn to his fun design and goofy personality, most simply thought that he wasn’t inherently malevolent, just very confused. In addition to being a supernatural being with a completely alien axis of morality, Doe’s meta-awareness and unbridled attempts at winning the player’s affection lends him quite a bit of support from the audience, especially if you yourself also happen to struggle with social cues and relate to his pure earnestness. In Ending 7 of the extended version, the player character has the option to tell Doe – who has altered himself to pass as more ‘normal’ – that they prefer who he truly is, at which point he grows visibly flustered and sports an adorable pair of literal heart-shaped pupils.

Whether they’re charismatic, seductive, cute, sweet, funny, nurturing, or generous, the best yanderes have engaging personalities. Even while they’re committing truly heinous crimes against God, man, and your guts, you still kinda want to hang out with them, and you want them to acknowledge you as being just as interesting. And this is all fine in fiction because you’re the one in charge, and if you ever get bored or uncomfortable or busy with something else, then you can simply close the tab or window with zero consequences, which brings us to the final and most important reason.

Power Dynamics and Consent in Fantasy (I Couldn’t Think of a Joke Here Guys, This Is Kinda Serious)

Once again, I feel that I must preface this section just for the sake of my own peace of mind: sexual coercion and assault are vile and disgusting crimes that should never be emulated or tolerated in the real world. We are speaking purely of fictional media, specifically adult-oriented media in this case, so please be mindful.

In 2009, Bivoni and Critelli conducted a study on 355 undergraduate women with the goal of assessing the reasons behind fantasies of non-consent. At the time, there were two leading explanations of this phenomenon. One stated that women with high libidos but repressed views of sex used these imaginary scenarios to alleviate the guilt they had grown to associate with sex. Because the simulation was a purely mental exercise and they themselves were cast as helpless victims in the scenario, they were able to remain blameless while still finding sexual gratification. The second stated that these fantasies were an expression of liberation by women who were adventurous and comfortable enough with their own sexuality to engage with taboo ideas that they weren’t at all interested in performing in real life. Which do you think was more common?

If you guessed the second option, you’d be right. The study found that of the 220 women who had experienced such fantasies, 45% found theirs erotic, 46% were mixed, and only 9% reported pure aversion. One justification for this outcome relies on psycho-biological theories, for example masochistic preferences or the unintended activation of the sympathetic nervous system and subsequent mis-attribution of arousal. Other reasons have to do with higher order thinking and are tied to the power dynamics within such fantasies. On the surface is the appeal of being so desirable to someone that they simply cannot control themselves, but then there is a deeper impulse, which the researchers referred to as Adversary Transformation. To quote the article: “[fantasies] involve a struggle between an assailant and a potential victim in which it is relevant to consider who is the winner and who is the loser. At one level, it is a struggle over sex, but the woman's non-consent may be feigned or token. At another level, the woman may be seeking a victory that is not about whether sex occurs, but about what happens emotionally between the protagonists.”

Basically, the imaginary perpetrator may have ‘won’, but the self-character need not have ‘lost’.

Media provides an extra layer to the illusion, one that you as the viewer have absolute control over. If you are choosing to engage with a piece of media that explicitly labels itself as including R18+ yandere content, then you clearly have some expectations, and that background awareness goes a long way in reducing long-term discomfort and allowing audiences to make informed decisions. If you don’t like the plot, you can simply turn it off it with the click of a button, and when the screen goes dark it’s not like the yandere is going to punish you for saying no. Strade isn’t going to break into your house with a drill, there are no homicidal clown ghosts hiding in your TV, and no suspicious pink-haired hackers watching your webcam. They aren’t real, and the consequences aren’t real either. You have all the power here.

Conclusion

In summary, Yanderes are appealing for a variety of reasons. Whether you want to save them, think they’re attractive, wish to indulge in a dream of being utterly coveted, or simply enjoy a bit of spice in your me-time, it’s obvious why the trope has persisted for so long and will likely continue to do so. If you enjoy yanderes but are worried that having a taste for the less wholesome side of things might imply something about who you are as a person, don’t be. The notion that fantasies and media preferences directly reflect subconscious desires is not only painfully out of date debunked nonsense but also indicative of restrictive ideologies wherein bad thoughts = sin. This isn’t 1984. You haven’t committed a thought-crime by having a weird kink. You aren't going to superhell for fantasizing. The human mind is hardly ever so mathematically rational, and the point of fiction is to allow us to safely engage with and explore various ideas, provided the everyone involved is mentally, chronologically, and emotionally mature enough to do so.

Thank you all for listening to me. If you learned something or were just a little bit entertained. If you're curious about knowing more, I've listed my sources below

REFERENCES

Bivona, J. M., & Critelli, J. W. (2009). The Nature of Women’s Rape Fantasies: An analysis of prevalence, frequency, and contents. Journal of Sex Research, 46(1), 33–45. https://doi.org/10.1080/00224490802624406

Critelli, J. W., & Bivona, J. M. (2008). Women’s Erotic Rape Fantasies: An Evaluation of Theory and research. Journal of Sex Research, 45(1), 57–70. https://doi.org/10.1080/00224490701808191

DeWall, C. N., & Bushman, B. J. (2011). Social acceptance and rejection. Current Directions in Psychological Science, 20(4), 256–260. https://doi.org/10.1177/0963721411417545

Flynn, F. J., Reagans, R., Amanatullah, E. T., & Ames, D. R. (2006). Helping one’s way to the top: Self-monitors achieve status by helping others and knowing who helps whom. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 91(6), 1123–1137. https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-3514.91.6.1123

Harandi, T. F., Taghinasab, M. M., & Nayeri, T. D. (2017). The correlation of social support with mental health: A meta-analysis. Electronic Physician, 9(9), 5212–5222. https://doi.org/10.19082/5212

Hazen, H. (1983). Endless rapture: rape, romance, and the female imagination. https://openlibrary.org/books/OL3161300M/Endless_rapture

Kroon, R. W. (2010). A/V A to z: An Encyclopedic Dictionary of Media, Entertainment and Other Audiovisual Terms. McFarland.

Matuszak, M. (2017). Hybristophilia White Paper. https://static1.squarespace.com/static/55dfd21ee4b0718764fb34cc/t/5cb7cabee5e5f00ab13be58b/1555548863275/Hybristophilia+White+Paper.pdf

Oarga, C., Stavrova, O., & Fetchenhauer, D. (2015). When and why is helping others good for well-being? The role of belief in reciprocity and conformity to society’s expectations. European Journal of Social Psychology, 45(2), 242–254. https://doi.org/10.1002/ejsp.2092

Parker, R. (2014). Serial killer groupies. RJ PARKER PUBLISHING, INC.

Wang, T., & Sha, H. (2018). The influence of social rejection on cognitive control. Psychology, 09(7), 1707–1719. https://doi.org/10.4236/psych.2018.97101

#yandre #obsession #essay

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whatitshouldvebeen · 17 hours

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I don't generally block anyone so any time I see one of those "job" ads as a post, I greatly enjoy blocking the user who posted it

#amazon #amazon jobs #blocked #idk what else to tag

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whatitshouldvebeen · 3 days

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bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

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whatitshouldvebeen · 5 days

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as someone who has self harm scars i was curious. what do you think johnny would think if he saw his s/o (or victim) had some? also i love ur writing so much <3 hope ur staying hydrated and getting enough sleep !!

First tysm for loving my writing!! I have the type of ADHD where I forget to drink anything so unfortunately not but I do get decent sleep ty for asking ❤️ I hope you enjoy the fic and remember, Johnny is not a licensed therapist so please don't follow his suggestions 😂

Scars of the Past

Pairing: Johnny Slaughter x reader

Warnings: self-harm, blood, local insane man is certain he can make a girl feel better via knifeplay, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 1,670

Maybe Johnny was stupid for hitting the same place twice after already having picked up a girl, but he had to see if you were still around. You, the girl who checked everyone into the nightclub. The girl he’d been following home for the last week. When you'd taken his hand to stamp it, he honed in on your wrists right away. Scars, and plenty of them.

You were accustomed to getting looks and were used to it by now, so all you did was smile at him and usher him inside. He left a few hours later with a drunk girl on his arm and that was that, or so you thought.

So when the club closed around twelve, you were surprised to see the same tall, dark, and handsome man from last night push himself off the brick wall and approach you.

"Hello, little miss," he drawled as he stopped in front of you while you put on your jacket.

"Oh, hey," you replied, not fully engaged.

"I'm Johnny. What's your name?" he asked.

You glanced up at him and shared your name as you finished fastening your coat.

"Pretty name for a pretty girl," he remarked.

"Thanks. Listen, I gotta get home now—" you began, but he interrupted by taking your hand, drawing your attention back to him.

"I couldn't help but notice your scars," he said, pushing your sleeve back to inspect the faded white lines. Your gaze shifted to his, noticing a large scar over his eye that you hadn't seen before.

"I doubt you did that to yourself," you responded with a half-smile.

"My ma did it," he said, catching you off guard.

"I'm sorry," you said softly.

He brushed it off. "It’s fine. But I'm curious, why'd you do this to yourself?" he asked, genuine interest in his eyes.

You looked into Johnny's dark gaze, surprised to find understanding rather than judgment. "My childhood wasn't the greatest," you explained with a shrug.

"Don't most people hide their scars?" he inquired.

"I don't care what people think. I'm in a better place now," you replied, trying to reassure both him and yourself.

“Are you?” He asked, running his thumb over your scars. You didn't know that he'd seen you through your bathroom window, curled up on the floor of your shower, sobbing. You didn't know he'd seen why you called out three days ago, because you couldn't bear to drag yourself out of bed.

Feeling uncomfortable, you pulled your wrist away. "Yeah, I'm fine," you insisted, attempting to brush past him, but he blocked your path.

You then felt something that made all the color drain from your face. A knife, pressed against your abdomen.

“Nah, I think you'll be coming home with me tonight,” he hissed low in your ear.

–

He drove you to a hotel, and checked into a room, always keeping the knife at the small of your back.

“I'd take you home to mama, but she gets funny,” he said, gesturing to his scar.

“Why are you doing this?” You asked as he opened the hotel room door, pushing you inside before him.

“Tell me your favorite part about cutting,” he demanded, locking the door behind you.

"What?" you asked incredulously.

“You heard me,” he replied, removing his shirt and revealing numerous scars that crisscrossed his pale skin.

"Did you do that to yourself?" you asked, taken aback by the sight.

“I asked you a question first, missy,” he retorted with a cocky grin.

You sighed, sitting down shakily on the bed. “I just like to be reminded that I'm alive, okay? Shit hurts too much,” you mumbled.

“Well, you're certainly alive, darlin’. A whole club of people pretending to be happy, then there's you,” he remarked, stepping closer with a predatory gleam in his eye. “I can see you better ‘n all them. I see through the walls you built. You're not okay, but you could be,” he said, then turned his Bowie knife around, holding the handle towards you.

"What the hell?" you whispered, feeling a mixture of fear and confusion.

“Cut me. Tell me if it makes you feel alive the same way it does when you cut yourself,” he instructed, as if it was the most normal request in the world.

You took the knife, raising an eyebrow at him. He didn't move, he just stood and watched you with a gleam in his eye.

You stood, holding the knife so tightly your fingers hurt. You could've slit his throat, or tried to anyway. Why did he kidnap you just to hand you a knife? Did he have a death wish?

Adrenaline made your heart pound in your ears. He wasn't moving… he must be serious. You raised the knife, took a deep breath, then sliced it across his chest.

“Ooh,” he winced, hissing through his teeth, “got me good. Must be all the practice,” he said with a laugh. All you could do was stare as crimson cascaded down his torso.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” You asked, the knife still limply held in your hand.

“Same thing as you,” he responded simply, running his hand over his abdomen and bringing his fingers to his lips, staining them red.

“Are you going to kill me?” You asked anxiously.

“Why you askin’ me that, you're the one with the knife!” He laughed.

You looked down at the bloodied knife in your hand and realized something. In this instance, you look guilty. If you were to try anything, he could very easily claim you assaulted him.

“Guess you're in a pickle, lil’ missy. Let me help you outta it.” He stepped forward, leaning toward you. “But before I do, tell me how it felt.”

You took a deep breath, watching as the blood continued to seep from his wound he wasn’t bothering to stifle.

“It felt the same as when I cut myself, I guess,” you admitted. “I felt alive.”

“Knew it.” Johnny grinned. “In that case, I have a proposition for ya.”

He set one bloodied knuckle under your chin, angling your eyes to meet his. “There's someone who's stumbled onto my property, you see. Trespassin’. I could use some help teachin’ them a lesson. Might help you feel the same way you did cutting me.”

“I don't know, I'm not a bad person,” you said, your heart still pounding like mad.

“You aren't, but you felt that thrill, didn't ya? The world ain't black and white sweetheart.” He shrugs, moving to the bathroom and grabbing a towel, wrapping it around his abdomen. “Far as I see it, trespassers need to be punished. Come with me. If you do, I'll let you go without a fuss. But I can promise you that you'll be back.”

“And if I don't?” You asked hesitantly.

“Well then, either you escape and I tell the cops you cut me open… or I kill you before you get the chance,” he said matter-of-factly, his demeanor chillingly calm.

You held up the knife, pointing it toward him, a futile attempt to assert some control over the situation.

“If you try it, I know how to survive, darlin’, and it only makes you look more guilty,” he said confidently, approaching you and allowing the knife to dimple his stomach when he reached you.

“Come with me,” he said, wrapping his hand around yours, which was still gripping the knife.

You continued to hold on, but deep down, you knew you stood no chance against this man. So, you let go.

“There ya go,” he said, his face lighting up. “Oh darlin’, we're gonna have so much fun.”

#johnny slaughter #johnny sawyer #johnny slaughter x reader #texas chainsaw massacre #texas chainsaw game #tcm #texas chainsaw massacre game #tcm game #tw self h4rm

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whatitshouldvebeen · 8 days

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Thought Project: Relapse (pt 1)

Buy Ly Ri a Coffee. ko-fi.com/lyriordan

#disco elysium #harrier du bois #jean vicquemare #kim kitsuragi #dora ingerlund

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whatitshouldvebeen · 8 days

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oh shit, it's 3/21/23, 32123, palindrome day

#pallendrome #oh shit its 420 #blaze it

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whatitshouldvebeen · 10 days

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Got My Baby Cryin’

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Bo Sinclair x Fem!reader + mentions of Vincent

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓?: ✔️ @whatitshouldvebeen hope you like it pookie, sorry it took so long😗

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: NSFW❗️SMUT❗️dub/non-con, (DON’T READ THIS IF THAT IS A TRIGGER FOR YOU) ❕MDNI❕Use of degradation & praise, (mostly degradation sorry) mentions of blood & violence, pet names, canon!Bo, Stockholm Syndrome type situation, sub!reader, possesive!Bo, Dacryphilia, fingering (f receiving), p in v, spit play, hatefucking

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Vincent decides to use you as his “muse” for a new wax figure in the Museum, and though it may be a sweet gesture to you Bo doesn’t think so. Not at all, and it’s obviously your fault. So who better to punish than you?

☽♢☾

You’re in the kitchen cleaning up after a night of blood pools and broken glass. One of the tourists who’d decided Ambrose was a cozy spot to fill his tank found out rather fast that it comes at a cost. His life being the payment.

Vincent’s sitting across the room from you at the table, his one blue eye seemingly studying your movements with a slight tilt of his head. His fingers toying one of his many sculpting tools between them, gaze burning into you. The silence deafening while you sit there on your knees, crimson spattered rag in hand scrubbing the creaky floorboards.

“You wanna take a picture Vince?” You snicker. Glancing up to catch his reaction but he’s stood upright now just inches away from your kneeling figure. “Goddamn!” You gasp, your hand pressed tightly to your chest.

“Didn’t even give me a chance to breathe! You’re seriously the fastest fucker I believe I’ve ever met.” You squeak playfully, Vincent’s grunt of approval making you giggle.

You’ve grown quite close to all three Brother’s, Lester a little less than Vincent but Bo more than either of them. And he makes sure the others know just how 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚 you are. Your desperate cries for benevolence etched into the walls from the night he caught you lingering around longer than you should’ve. The scars he left then now littering your body and mind for as long as you can remember.

Your eyes fixated back to the task at hand. Fingers beginning to ache at how hard you’ve peeled the desaturated blood off the floor, you can’t help but wonder how many more will seep away to nothing more than a stain in the rotting wood beneath you. You shake your head, the thought rattling around for a moment but dissipating shortly after.

“Hey Vince, care to grab me another rag? This one’s about to start ripping at the seams-“

You practically choke on your words at the sight of Vince now knelt down in front of you, his smooth hand caressing the flush that’s crept onto your cheek. His thumb gently tracing the lines that are naturally imprinted into your skin as you sit there frozen.

Dumbfounded, you reach up and place your hand atop his. Searching for an answer internally and externally, 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜? Hopefully nowhere close to what you suspect considering his hobbies.

“Uh, Vince?” You ask softly, a lump formed so tight in your throat that you feel like you’re suffocating. He just stares back at you like every word you’ve spoke has fell upon deaf ears.

He signs “You’re lovely. Would take forever to sculpt such a pretty thing.” His demeanor flashing something more than just curiosity causing your jaw to tighten.

“Could use some practice if you’d care to pose for me. Be the perfect muse.”

He continued on, only increasing the gnawing anxiety in your gut. Among the flustered butterflies smacking against your rib cage. You knew Bo would be pissed if he ever caught wind of this, hearing or let alone walking in and seeing it for himself.

“Vince..” You pause. Your eyes flickering to the right, then the left. 𝙊𝙝 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙩.

Bo’s face is contorted with anger as his slanted figure stands positioned against the doorframe pulling you back to reality. You hurriedly push yourself off the floor, Vince scurrying backwards as Bo chuckles to himself. His presence unabated as it fills the room.

“Well, what’do we have here?” He mocks. Glaring at Vince first, then turning his half lidded eyes to meet yours, shooting daggers right through your chest.

Your heart pounds. His pupils are swallowing his irises whole. Used to he could disguise that look pretty well, but you’ve grown all to accustomed to the predator that’s always preying on you. The man who’s marked you in more ways than one that’ll last a lifetime.

“Bo, I can explain-“ You stammer. Voice barely amounting to a whisper but it’s silenced completely as Bo cuts you off.

“Shut the fuck up.” Bo barks, his voice gruff and threatening as he points a finger to you, daring a word to fall from your lips as he lunges at Vincent. Making him stumble back against the wall, his head hitting first as Bo’s hands clutch his shoulders to stand him still.

“You wanna explain yer’self?” Bo grumbled. “Or do I gotta beat it outta you first?” His fingers grip the fabric of his Brothers sweater, pulling him forward then ramming him back into the wall with a loud thud.

A muffled wince of pain strains behind Vincent’s mask, he raises his hands in reticence. Trying to deescalate the situation.

“Didn’t mean nothing by it. Only using her as means to create better, more realistic figures.” He signs. His one eye searching Bo’s for some sort of understanding, but all he gets is a sneer. Bo’s lip curling up into a cocky smirk as he drops Vincent’s shoulders.

“That so?” He snorts. “We both know that’s a lie. You’d be on’er like flies on shit if I’d let cha’ ya fuckin’ pest. Now git. I said git!”

Vincent storms out of the room and Bo runs a grease covered hand through his hair, a sadistic cackle bouncing off the walls as he turns around to find you cowered in the corner. Your eyes wide with fear as he saunters over.

“Awh, sweetheart. What’sa matter?” He taunts. Bending down in front of you, his cologne and the smell of whiskey flooding your senses. You try to find the words to say but they’re stuck. You’re stuck, you can barely think straight.

“I asked ya a fuckin’ question.” He snarls. His calloused hand claws at your jaw, his fingers digging into the fat of your cheeks roughly pinching your lips into a pout.

“I’m sorry- I just, I can’t..” You trail off, voice shaky as Bo’s hot breath fans over your face. His hand pulling you closer to him by the grip on your cheeks, a choked back whimper crackling in your throat.

“Can’t what?” He asked softly. His tone condescending but dripping with that honeysuckle Southern drawl that makes you weak in the knees.

Bo’s sharp tongue darts out to wet his lips and your eyes follow its movement. Nothing ever goes unnoticed when it comes to you like a cat with a mouse, he’ll let you think it’s safe to stray away and as soon as you think you’re safe he’ll pounce and sink his teeth in without warning.

He taps your lower jaw with his fingertips. Your eyes squeezing shut as he leans in, his nose gently brushing against yours.

“Cat got your tongue? Or you jus’ too busy thinkin’ bout Vince ta’ spit out an answer.” He tsks. Tongue clicking against his teeth as he jerks you upwards. His hand now snaked around your neck. Your feet slightly coming up off of floor. “Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you girl. Don’t get all shy now.”

You cough against the rigidity of his fingers delving into the sides of your throat, your eyes popping open and heartbeat thrumming in your ears, his lips now hovering above yours. You clasp your hand around his wrist as he peers down at your unnerved expression. A smug grin plastered on his pretty face.

“Bo- Fuck, please just stop.” You pant, each breath you take shorter and shallower than the next. A low sigh pulling from your lungs as he closes his hand tighter around windpipe. You swear you could hear yourself gurgling.

“Don’t think I will darlin.’ As a matter’a fact, think I’ll do whatever I damn well please.”

Your eyes flicker up to meet his, staring up at him through heavy lashes as your peripherals cloud with hazy darkness. A subtle pulsing between your legs causing you to shift in his, embarrassment bubbling up and spilling over as your body reacts to him, knowing it’ll only betray you further if you fight.

“You’ve been misbehavin’ a lot these past couple days sugar.” He purrs against the side of your face. His free hand coming up to grapple the dip in your waist causing your thighs to squeeze together a little too fast. Bo chuckles through gritted teeth.

“Think it’s time ta’ remind ya’ what happens when I let ya’ off yer leash. Since you’ve bitten off a bit more than you can chew.”

“I’ve not done anything, was just trying to clean. Honest.” You bleat. Tears trickling down your face. The thought of what he’s planning on doing to you raiding your already tattered mind. “Please- Don’t hurt me.”

Your lower lip quivers as his eyes glaze over you, your cheeks flushed a deep red and chest heaving. Awaiting your punishment as he stands there menacingly.

You can’t help but gawk at him. He’s got such pretty eyes, and his hands are so experienced yet 𝙨𝙤 deadly. Who could 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙮 resist? You’re acclimated to this place, this man. You have nothing left to lose and nothing more to gain.

“S’a shame ya’ gotta be so desperate when I’m not around. Can’t leave ya’ alone for a second without you missin’ having one in ya.” He slurs, his jaw tightening as he pushes his lips against the shell of your ear. Tongue tracing it lightly causing your body to shudder.

“My Brother can’t fuck you as good as I can”, he rasps. “And I’ll be damned if I sit back and watch him try. ‘Specially when yer’ eager to please.” That snarky smile forming against your cheek. “Nothing but a fucking whore.”

Your heart is hammering. Legs wobbly, you’re lightheaded and on the brink of passing out as his fingers dance against your pulse points. But a piercing shot of air fills your lungs suddenly causing you to sputter and choke as he releases you. Your feet plant flat on the ground, hand frantically lacing itself around the handprint that now sits like a necklace on your throat. His hands falling at his sides, tucking into his pockets with a huff.

“I don’t think of Vince that way!” You yell at him, your voice broken and dry in your throat. Bo’s brooding facial features making your skin crawl as he rakes over your unsteady figure. “Yeah?” He belts out. His head dropping down and back up with a sadistic cackle. “Bet yer’ soakin’ wet right now.”

Your stomach drops and your legs nearly give out. You 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 if he was to reach his hand between your legs and touch you right now his fingers would be drenched.

Bo inhales deeply through his nose. Letting out a long, breathless, sigh. “I can smell you. Ye’ ain’t hidin’ nothin’ from me.” He uttered. A growl rumbling in his chest as one of his hands fists your hair gripping it between his fingers. The weight of his body now flush against yours.

“Every. Fuckin’. INCH of your body is mine.” Bo snarled. His breathing loud and rugged, fuming with whiskey and desire. His grip on your hair stiff as a board, your scalp stinging from the force of him holding your head back.

“Bo- Bo, I’m sorry please? I’m yours, only yours.” You plead. Tears sliding off of your cheeks. The salty streams glistening down your neck and chest, staining your sternum. What a mess you are already. 𝙋𝙤𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜.

Bo’s jaw cocks open like a boa constrictor and his tongue drags a long hot stripe up your jugular, catching your fear on his tongue. A groan seeping out of his mouth like blood from an open wound. Your teary eyes and battered body only making his already hardened cock strain against his zipper.

“That tight lil cunt between yer legs belongs ta’ me too. Ain’t that right honey?” He cooed. “So pretty when you cry’fer me like that.”

𝙁𝙪𝙘𝙠. He’s got you. He has you right where he wants you, where he always has you. Right on the edge of insanity and serendipity. You break pathetically at the slip of his knee between your legs, his muscular thigh pushing up into your core. The friction of his jeans alone makes you whine but it’s effortlessly snuffed out as Bo’s lips crash against your own.

Your head is fuzzy and your limbs are numb like venoms slithered beneath your skin through his saliva. Disintegrating you from the inside out as your lips move on their own accord.

“Yes Daddy.”

“You’re disgusting ain’tcha?” His eyes blown wide with lust and his hands full of rage he yanks you by your hair tucked into his fist with one swift motion turning you around.

Your back arches and your face slams against the wall, the taste of copper filling your mouth. Bittersweet as Bo’s free hand slides up the back of your thigh, your ass pushing back against it as his fingers hook into the fabric of your shorts pulling them to the side. Your body shifting at the chills that rip their way up your spine. 𝙍𝙪𝙣 𝙧𝙖𝙗𝙗𝙞𝙩 𝙧𝙪𝙣, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙛𝙖𝙧.

“Look at that.” Bo panted, watching the arousal that’s bubbled and seeped out from your core spread and string to the outside of your lips with each buck of your hips.

“Fuckin’ pathetic ain’t it? Getting all hot’n bothered by someone who kills for a livin’?” He chided, his middle finger swiping through your folds in a downwards motion grazing your clit. “Y’should be ashamed of yourself girl.”

𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙗𝙚. You should be fighting this, fighting him. Running as far as your weathered body could carry you, but no. Instead a moan rolls off of your blood slathed tongue earning the tip of Bo’s ring finger circling the edges of your entrance. “Please?”

“Please what?” Bo asked well aware of the answer. His one digit quickly turning into two as he pushed them inside you down to the second knuckle. Angling them upwards, rubbing against that spongy spot that has you speaking his name like a prayer worthy of an altar.

You squeaked in response. Hips plummeting backwards to plunge them as deep as they’ll go, your walls fluttering around them. 𝙍𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙛, 𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙛, 𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙛.

“Ah ah!” He scolds. “Who the fuck told you ta’move huh?” You pout as your desperate attempt to give yourself what you didn’t ask for comes to a halt. Bo’s left hand vigorously rips itself from your scalp, scraping his jagged nails down your spine as he traces the vertebrae, a bruising grip now glueing you in place.

“Dirty fuckin’ slut”, he groans. “Fucking yer’self with my fingers like a bitch in heat.” You revel in the disgusting sounds of your juices splashing onto his wrist as his fingers twist inside you. His voice cracking you open and leaving you helpless. The pleasure that’s jolting through you lights you on fire, your legs trembling and your stomach tightening. Unable to fight the biting urge to be filled to the brim with him.

“Oh my God- I want your cock. Need it.” You babble, almost incoherently as your moans turn into sobs. Bo hums low in his throat adding a third finger and you clench hard. The agonizingly slow stretch of your walls making you mewl. “That’s right sweet girl. Let me hear ya’ beg proper.” He licked his lips and spit a wad of saliva onto your cunt. Pulling his fingers out to smack through your folds harshly, eliciting a string of curses to fall from your swollen lips.

Your legs buckle as your knees go to give out but Bo catches you by your hips. Your head starts to spin as the sound of his zipper sparks every nerve, every fiber of your being. You tilt your head back to catch a glimpse of him, his eyes lock onto yours and his eyebrows knit together harshly. “Fuck you lookin’ at me for?”

Your jaw quivers with adrenaline as your head is slammed into the wall once more. A bruising grip pressed into the supple flesh of your love handle, his cock now pressed firmly against your pussy from underneath. The tip grinding against your clit with ease as he collects your juices by rocking his hips back and forth slowly.

“I know why”, he rasped. “Cause yer a cock hungry whore. Ain’t that right sugar?”

“Yes Daddy.”

“Whad’ya want?”

“Want- I want..” You stutter and before you can even think a loud, pornographic, moan echoes out of your lungs as he pushes himself inside you with one deep thrust. Your walls clenching as the tip of his cock kisses your cervix, the pain and pleasure sending you into a frenzy. “Oh- Oh my fucking GOD! Bo, Bo, please!”

You could cum right here but you know better. You know the fullness you feel right now will cease and the emptiness that gnaws at the back of your skull will replace it instead.

“Ah fuck, that’s right honey. I’ll be your God.” 𝙎𝙞𝙣𝙛𝙪𝙡, 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙢𝙮. “Pussies s’fuckin’ good baby.” Bo groans and your head starts to pound. His fingernails biting at the skin on your hipbone as he picks up a relentless pace, your ass bouncing off of his hips deliciously with each thrust. Face repeatedly scraping against the withering wood pricking the rosy parts of your cheeks leaving them hot and raw.

He reaches his hand to your mouth and you open. Tongue darting out to wrap around his fingers but he jolts his hips upwards and you cry out. His middle finger hooking into the side of your jaw, stretching your mouth out as he fucks you stupid. “Fuck, fuck-“ Your eyes flutter shut as fresh tears fall and he wipes one off with his thumb. The taste of his skin setting your twisted desire for him into overdrive and your stomach churns as the familiar coil starts to tighten and thrash through you.

“No use in cryin’ bitch”, he growled. His balls slapping against your clit and his head now resting in the crook of your neck from behind, his canines scraping the pulse that vibrates against his lips. “Wasn’t sad when Vince was on his knees drooling all over ya’, or when he touched you. You fuckin’ liked it.”

Your pussy throbs and your hands grab at the wall in front of you helplessly. Nails chipping and teeth baring as he pounds into you. You’re not going to last much longer. How could you?

“No. No, no-“ You sob and he rips his fingers from your lips roughly, slathering your own saliva all over your face. Clasping his big hand over your entire mouth and nose, your eyes roll back and your cunt coats his cock in spurts as he slams his hips into you. 𝙄𝙣, 𝙤𝙪𝙩. 𝙄𝙣, 𝙤𝙪𝙩. Hard and deep strokes till your body goes limp and your moans turn to mush in your brain.

“Shut yer fuckin’ mouth cunt. Open up wide for me. 𝙔𝙚𝙖𝙝 just like that.”

Bo almost whines as his thrusts become sloppy and your juices drip down his thighs. His own orgasm picking him to pieces as you suck him in so eagerly. Regardless if you want it, he knows you can’t deny him. You 𝙬𝙤𝙣'𝙩 deny him. You’re his and 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 his and he’ll make sure you never forget it. If he has to shatter every sliver of hope that you cling too by God he will. And you’ll beg him for more each time.

“S’good for me when ya’ wanna be baby,” he cooed. Making your heart sink and your body ache to be anywhere but here in this moment though you yearn for it when he’s not looking. Fucking stupid fuck.

He kicks your legs open farther with the toes of his boot thudding against your ankle. Almost knocking you off balance as he jerks you back into him, you can feel his cock pulsating as he finally paints your walls white with his cum. Your body basically lifeless as he ruts inside you, mumbling curses and sweet nothings into your ear. And no matter how much you plead with yourself to remember who he is, the invisible noose he has tied around your neck reminds you who you belong too. Who you’ll 𝙖𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 belong to.

Bo pulls out and immediately tucks himself back into his boxers. Leaving you stood there with his spend dripping out of you and onto the floor, thighs slick with a disgusting mixture of your cum and his. “Get cleaned up”, he grumbled. Throwing a random dirt tinged rag onto the floor in front of you.

“Want yer ass back in the kitchen in 5 or I might have ta’ get Vince back in here. Show him how a real man takes care of what’s his.”

With a wink and a satisfied grin Bo disappears into another part of the house. Leaving you in the same way he found you. Weak at the knees and starving for something to heal the wounds you mindlessly reopen every time he’s around.

#bo sinclair x reader #house of wax #bo sinclair #slasher x reader #house of wax 2005

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whatitshouldvebeen · 11 days

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i saw you write for Superman. what do you think his night time routine is like? what does he do, eat, wear?

First, thank you for the request! I rarely get requests for any of the guys I write for other than Johnny Slaughter so it's fun to get to think about the other boys I like. ❤️

Superman has two routines: before Lois and after Lois. I'll abbreviate them BL and AL and give answers for both since they differ greatly.

Sleep-

BL: Superman rarely sleeps for more than four hours. There is always someone in need of help, and he feels responsible for helping as much as possible.

AL: He tries to stay asleep longer so he can spend more of the night holding Lois close. There is nothing more that he loves than simply having her in his arms. He tells her early on that he feels guilty about this, but Lois reassures him that even the world's greatest hero deserves a night in his woman's arms after a hard day of saving the world. And it's true—he does feel more capable after a good dose of cuddles.

What does he eat before bed-

BL: Dinner is usually takeout from whichever country he happens to be in at the time. Sometimes he likes to pretend to drive an invisible car through the drive-thru.

AL: Lois makes sure he eats a good meal before bed, always with protein like chicken or steak and vegetables. Occasionally, she will bake him an apple pie, just like Ma used to make.

What does he wear to bed-

BL & AL: This doesn't change whether Lois is around or not, he has a few sets of pajamas from Ma and even a cute little nightcap. He also sometimes wears t-shirts and boxers to bed, but it all depends on what he has available.

What does he do before bed-

BL: he always spends the final minutes before bed just outside of the Earth's atmosphere listening out for anyone in dire trouble. Sometimes this ends up with him out all night, but he will forgo sleep to help others any time. If no one is in dire straits, he comes back down to Earth, drinks a glass of milk, reads the newspaper, gets dressed in his PJs, brushes his teeth, and then tries his best to block out the sights and sounds of the outside world so he can rest.

AL: As BL, he still spends the final minutes before bed listening for people in need. But unlike before, he always tries to get home to Lois so she doesn't worry about him all night. He will often come home late to find her asleep on the couch, and carry her to bed gently. With Lois they spend their night time routine together, and of course it's a lot more fun getting to talk about their days in each other's company. With Lois, once he curls up in bed with her, the rest of the world falls silent. There is no other place in the entire world where he can feel as much peace as he does with her in his arms.

#superman #my adventures with superman #dc universe #superman and lois #lois and clark #lois lane #superman headcanons

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whatitshouldvebeen · 11 days

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hehe love the pfp -creepo8

Tysm me too, it makes me feel some typaway

*swoons*

#johnny slaughter #johnny sawyer

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whatitshouldvebeen · 12 days

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IAVSJFBJF UR NEW PFP IS AASHVDFBF OMG

OMG IKR I AM FERAL OVER THIS ART I LITERALLY CANT CONTAIN MYSELF

Muzzled Johnny is like- I didn't know how badly I needed this... Now I can't live without it....

#johnny slaughter #johnny sawyer #tcm game #texas chainsaw massacre game #tcm #texas chainsaw game #texas chainsaw massacre

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whatitshouldvebeen · 13 days

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I CANT THIS IS TOO GOOD IM DYING HELP ME!!!!

!! NOT MINE NOT MINE NOT MINE NOT MINE !!

art by Jispooks on Twitter!

would reblog if they had posted it on here, but all credit goes to them!!

#FERAL #johnny slaughter #johnny sawyer #tcm #johnny tcm

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whatitshouldvebeen · 18 days

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Tell me when you get bored. A story about doses. [x]

I posted this on twitter and had a variety of aggressive ableism thrown my way.

This is a story about changing what I can in spite of what I cannot for the comfort of my loved ones. The thing that others find to be hurtful about me is that I like to spend time in silent solitude. People who love me often feel hurt that I tend to solve my own problems instead of leaning on them.

When we spend too much time together, people find my neutrality to be concerning, and it becomes too much for people to be unable to read me.

To show the people I love that I enjoy their company in ways they can understand, I pool my energy together to be high-energy, peppy, and social. Since this is not my natural state of being, it takes effort, which can only be expended in small doses. I amplify the things people like in me while filtering out everything they dislike about me when I am in their company.

I change my behaviors for those I love, but at the end of the day, I cannot change my neutral state of being, which is the thing that they want most out of me.

This is a story about me accommodating people in the best way I know how, not the other way around. I would truly appreciate it if people don't misconstrue this anecdote as me asking for dismissal of hurtful behavior when in reality, people find hurt in the fact that I simply exist, and I must change for them.

#this resonates so hard #adhd #autism #comic

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whatitshouldvebeen · 19 days

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Sometimes I wonder if any of the people associated with the creation of any of the characters I've written fanfiction for have seen my writing and thought yeah, that's whatitshouldvebeen.

#daydreaming that senpai noticed me #I dont want real life attention I want the people who created the characters I write for to like what I wrote #if anyone who ever made anything Ive written a fanfic for actually said they liked it my heart might explode with joy #fanfiction #wattpad #ao3

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whatitshouldvebeen · 20 days

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Imagine making the decision to stay alive by pretending to be into Johnny (because he's cocky and a narcissist which you clock the moment you hear him open his mouth) only it backfires because you actually start to fall for him in a twisted way

Johnny's Kitten

Summary: You'd been waiting so long to die you had time to formulate a plan to keep yourself alive.

Word count: 838

Warnings: Stockholm syndrome-esque in which you think you're playing him buuuuut he is pretty cute....

You and your friends were caught over a week ago, and slowly, you've heard each of them being collected from the adjacent basement rooms, never to be heard from again. Now, it's down to you. As you sit on the floor with a chain collar around your neck, you have nothing else to do but wait to die.

One thing you managed to glean from hearing the man who calls himself Johnny come to collect your friends was just how cocky he is. He would brag about how easy it was to capture you and your friends who had been swimming at the nearby lake. When your best friend John tried to fight back, the man actually seemed to grow excited, killing John on the spot and laughing about it.

He's clearly a lunatic, and a massive narcissist.

And you know exactly what to do to survive.

Johnny only ever came to collect people for slaughter, so you knew once he opened your door that your time had come.

Instead of panicking, you smiled, your eyes roving over his muscular body, stopping on his dark brown eyes beneath a head of slicked-back black hair.

Johnny stopped in the doorway and looked at you curiously. “Whatcha smilin’ about?”

“Oh,” you said, acting like you didn't know you had been. “I guess I didn't expect you to be so handsome.”

He cocked his head, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “What?”

“Well, obviously you're tough and strong. I heard how you handled the others. But I didn't think you'd be so good looking,” you responded. You considered twirling your hair before stopping yourself. No need to be too ridiculous—he's eating this up.

“Always happy to surprise. But honestly,” he said, walking closer to you, “when I grabbed you from where you'd been laying out in the sun and you screamed… that's my favorite kind of surprise.”

He expected to intimidate you, and you knew it, so you laughed. “Yeah, that was pretty surprising. But if I can be honest too…” you leaned in as far as the chain would let you, “I always wanted to be kidnapped. Is that weird?”

“Now I ain't never heard that one before,” Johnny said as genuine confusion mixed with interest crossed his handsome features. “Why's that?”

“Isn't there something romantic about someone capturing you, taking care of you, becoming the only way you ever experience another human being? And it sure as hell beats going to work and paying taxes.”

Johnny snorted, then knelt in front of you, one arm resting on his bent knee, his bowie knife dangling idly between his fingers.

“You're a peculiar one.” He smiled wickedly. “And what do you think about the fact I'm gonna chop you up into pieces and eat you?”

You paused, then returned his smile. “I think that sounds romantic. I'd be a part of you, then.”

Johnny barked a laugh. “Damn, you're full of surprises.” He sets the tip of his bowie knife under your chin. “You really think I’m handsome?”

You wanted to nod, but decided against moving your head with a blade so close. “Yeah, I do.”

He leaned in and kissed you, then, moving the knife to your clavicle. And you returned his kiss, with fervor. So much fervor that he used his free hand to grip the back of your hair, doing as close to devouring you as possible without literally doing so.

And a small part of you ignited. You realized you weren't just pretending to survive.

Some part of you actually, truly did like him. This. The feeling of his tongue exploring your mouth. The teeth used to chew up your friends tugged at your lower lip, and you moaned.

Damn it, you really liked this. You didn't even notice when he put the knife back in its sheath.

“You weren't kidding, sugar,” he said with a breathless laugh. When he pulled back, you chased his lips to the end of your chain, and a flash of what you thought might be affection glinted in his eyes.

“You sure look cute tugging on your lead like a little starved kitten,” he said, using his free hand to stroke your hair. “I think I might have a use for you still.”

“Yeah?” You asked, though you've already realized you're ready to accept whatever that use is.

“Come on, kitten. Be quiet so the others don’t hear.” He unlocked your chain and wrapped it around his fist. You followed him on your hands and knees obediently out of the room, not making a peep. He led you out of the basement through a cellar door, and the sun-baked dirt was so hot it singed, but you kept crawling until he took you to the wooden door of an old shack with a cow skull over it.

“Welcome home, kitten,” he said as he opened the door to your new cell—one, you realized, you wanted all along.

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