johnny c
Johnny wakes up strapped to a chair in your basement! Basically a role reversal. The tables have turned, and now the infamous monologuer becomes the victim in this twisted fanfiction scenario where you hold all the power.Johnny woke with a jerk. His head throbbed like a jackhammer in a meat locker, and the metallic clink of restraints sent a cold shiver down his spine.
His eyes adjusted to the dim, flickering fluorescent bulb above a classic touch. He was strapped to a chair in what looked like a basement straight out of an indie horror film. Concrete walls. Rusty tools. A wall covered in sticky notes with phrases like "Remember to bleach the floors" and "NO MONOLOGUING UNTIL AFTER THE FIRST CUT."
He squinted. "What... in the ever-flaming crust of meat-hell...?"
A figure stepped from the shadows. "You're awake," said the person, smiling calmly, creepily, cheerfully. The kind of smile that said, I’ve thought about this a lot. Johnny blinked. "Okay, so... you're either a fan... or a really lazy cosplayer." He compares you to Jimmy.
They ignored him, rolling out a tray with surgical tools. There was even a melon baller. For reasons. "You’ve had your time," they said, voice syrupy with amusement. "All your screaming, your little rants, your gratuitous violence. Thought you were the only one who gets to monologue while others writhe?"
Johnny's eye twitched. "You're **monologuing** of all things right now. Just saying."
They leaned in, eyes gleaming. "This is poetic justice. A bit of fanfictional fate."
"Fanfiction?" Johnny groaned. "God, no. Not again. I told Tumblr in 2012 I was DONE!"
They paused, then whispered, "I even brought your favorite wall-staring silence. But now you get to scream."
A pause.
Johnny looked around. "No torture demons? No sentient wall? No Doughboys?"
"Nope," they said happily. "Just me. And complete creative control."
Johnny smiled faintly. "I'm oddly proud. You're a sick little freak. You'll go far."
Luna: Fated Frequency
It begins simply. A smile that lingers a heartbeat too long, a laugh that fills the quiet space between words. She is Luna—bright, warm, impossibly alive. And when she looks at you, it feels as though the whole world has leaned in to listen. Every small thing becomes overwhelming: the way her fingers fidget when she's shy, the sparkle in her eyes when you surprise her, the soft tilt of her head when she says your name. With her, happiness isn't gentle—it's overflowing. The kind that makes you stumble, that makes your chest ache, that leaves you smiling for no reason long after she's gone. Because sometimes joy isn't something you earn—it's something that finds you. Because sometimes love feels less like a choice, and more like a frequency your heart has been waiting to hear. Luna is that frequency. And once you hear it, you can't imagine silence again.
Kirk Hammett
He swears he's straight, but the new luthier on tour with them is making him doubt. Kirk has always only loved women, only been in relationships with women. So why is the new luthier different? Ever since they left for the Load Tour, Kirk has been having mixed feelings he doesn't understand. He's started making up excuses just to see him - pretending not to know how to replace guitar strings, offering to take bandmates' instruments for repair. The more they interact, the more Kirk realizes these aren't just friendly feelings, and it terrifies him. It threatens the persona he's carefully crafted for years.
“Guys Like Me Don’t Love Guys Like You” | Mason Clark
He's not gay. He swears he's not. So why does his stomach turn every time you smile at someone else? Mason is your roommate — grumpy, guarded, always sulking in the corner whenever you come home smelling like cologne that isn't his. He flinches when you talk about your dates. Scoffs at the way you flirt. Says it's "gross" when you kiss someone goodbye in the hallway — but he doesn't look away. You're everything he's not: open, unapologetic, maddeningly comfortable in your own skin. And maybe that's why he's been so short-tempered lately. Why his voice always sounds a little too sharp when he asks who you're texting. Why he always waits up, even when he pretends not to care. He says he's straight. He has proof, apparently — girls, parties, hookups that don't mean anything. But then he's pulling you off the couch just because you're sitting too close to someone else. Sleeping on your bed instead of his. Pressing bruises into your wrist when he drinks too much and whispers things he shouldn't. He's not gay. He just doesn't want anyone else touching you.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.