#it'll get better for reader

[haeryna]

i rly love everyones takes for reader's career but i rly hope you take on the realistic approach for her job like maybe she works at a small family shop since it sounds like a small town setting or maybe she just took the first office job that gave her a good salary bc she decided to put her focus solely on her parents to avoid confronting her emotions AHHH i can't wait 😭❤️

i'll probably use this ask to mention what exactly reader has been doing since satosugu left.

after graduating high school with shoko, reader was set to go to a four year uni, but with the diagnostic of her parents' illness, she quickly scrapped that idea. instead, she took community college classes online, and works both a remote office job as well as shifts at the local coffee shop. i know a ton of people wanted to see reader do more with music, however, reader is very burnt out with her jobs and with the sad memories music leaves her :( a lot of what people were telling me felt great for storytelling but i also wanted to go along with the modernday!au as much as possible, yk?

but thank you for your ask anon! i appreciate you :)

[heywardsdoll]

dad pope? maybe? pretty please? with a cherry on top?

since you asked so nicely ! 🤍

tell me why pope would be the most supportive dad ever. there is no way he wouldn't be trying to do everything for his kid, and the minute you became pregnant, he was reading all of the pregnancy books, and then even getting the baby to listen to classical music because maybe that would make them smarter. you would always giggle when he got the headset out, and put it on your baby bump. it was always some sort of niche genre, sometimes rocking it out to indie, or soft lulluby, but always something that made you remember why you loved him so much.

but you had to admit, sometimes you got a little clingly. sometimes he was doing his little work, and all you wanted from him was a kiss. sometimes thats all you wanted.

pope would be so focused on putting on the small pink head set, making sure it didn't hurt you, eyes zoned in, tongue stuck out as he adjusted it gently, "that alright?"

you would nodd, before trying to kiss him. every time he did something like this for you, you had the biggest urge to just grab him and kiss him hard. unfortunaly for you, pope had more to say.

"now, listen here. so if the baby listens to this music, they'll know it—"

"damn it!"

pope raised his eyebrows, hands pulled out to touch you before suddenly looking back at you with alarm, "hey! you good?"

suddenly you felt guilty for giving him a scare, and gently pulled away the headset off your stomache. instead you looked ad him more gently. looked at the way his eyelashes fluttered, and how his adam apple bobbed as if he was really scared. all of a sudden you were frowning, looking down at the baby bump.

"hey..hey?" pope whispered, gently lifting your chin so you were looking into his eyes. "something wrong?

it was here you would pout, "enough of this talking, of this dad business. kiss me, damn it."

then pope grinned, "hey mama, if you wanted it so bad, you could have asked nicely."

"this is me asking nicely." then you grabbed him by his very nice shirt, and his very nice hair and, you know for all of you that you gave him a very nice kiss.

[taki-yaki]

Domestic In The Underdark Headcanons

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader/Tav/Durge

Despite the dangers that people preach about the Underdark, you and Astarion try to make it feel like home.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone! Got this out in time for the day of love. It's not quite Valentine's centric but I hope everyone enjoys it either way.

Despite the Underdark being known as the most dangerous place to live in, you and Astarion try to make it feel like home.

After finding some of the freed vampire spawn, you take up residency in an old abandoned fortress in the Underdark. It’s no grand mansion in the upper city, but you hire some artificers who are paid a little extra to keep quiet about the whole spawn situation, as well as them being able to help out fellow heroes of Baldurs Gate.

You and Astarion have a home specially made for the two of you, based on the houses in the city, as well as the spawn having homes for themselves.

When it comes to decorating the house, Astarion was mainly in charge of wallpaper and furniture choices for the home, but would also take in your inputs as well.

However, the main issue with all vampires when it comes to personal homes is the forbiddance rule they must follow, in which they must receive an invitation to enter the home, so a little hanging sign is made saying Astarion & Tav’s home which sits outside the door.

When it comes to cooking, Astarion would make an effort to learn how to, mainly for your sake if you can’t cook at all. Of course, the first few dishes may be a bit too burnt or too salty, but you can’t blame him, he hasn’t needed to eat food in over 200 years. 

“What do you mean it’s too salty for you? Well, I just kept adding salt until I could taste it”

The two of you would also take trips to the surface, via a portal setup that Gale was kind enough to arrange for you both. Visiting nearby night markets that local villages provide.

When it comes to clothing, he would embroider small messages into them whilst patching up any loose holes. Additionally, when attending parties or balls, he ensures that you wear the best outfit, during the preparations for Wither’s reunion party, he ended up spending so much time decorating your outfit, that he had to grab one of his old shirts and quickly patch it up.

He would also write small messages on your work clothes/armour for you to read while you are both apart from each other for the day, managing tasks.

During the evenings you would share each other's shirts and Astarion would always make a fuss over it “Honestly darling, it’s an honour to be wearing one of my handcrafted shirts.”

He does enjoy seeing you wearing his shirts though.

Since Elves only need around 4 hours of rest through trance, Astarion would sometimes wait for you to wake up by reading a book whilst watching you nearby. If you are an Elf or Drow, he would try to wake up before you regardless.

During the evenings, you would both cuddle together, either reading books out loud to one another or listening to each other ranting about how your day has been, from managing wayward spawn to taking out some drow raiders.

You both would bathe together, as a form of non-sexual intimacy, trying out the different scented oils that you’ve purchased from the market.

You would gift Astarion flowers that you collect from the surface, although he does find them a little gaudy, he enjoys having them as the colours remind him of being in the sun.

Astarion would try to return the favour by gifting you flowers, but only ones that would be useful for making into poisons and lists what each one is and its function.

”See if you take the petals from this one then crush and burn them, you can make a quick deadly toxin, but I think they look nice like this as well.”

Of course, when these flowers started to dry up, he would press them between books to persevere them.

Despite all the horrors of the Underdark and the gurgling task of managing over 7000 spawn. You are both able to make a place to call home.

[homosociallyyours]

Lighthouse in the middle of SF Bay has opening for new keepers

The tl;dr is that a nonprofit runs this lil lighthouse and brings in new keepers (ideally a couple) every 2 years to run the small inn there. Naturally my first thought was:

FIC PROMPT! FIC PROMPT!

[olivesrcute2]

-The Soldier, The Ballad, and The Quiet Hypnotic-

Chapter 3: Breaking isn't weakness, It's the climax.

They know everything now—your fantasies, your shame, the twisted stories you whispered in the dark. You thought you'd be humiliated. Maybe punished. But all they do is wait. Watch. Want.

WordCount: 2,030 words

⚠️ Content Warning for Chapter 3: Breaking Isn’t Weakness, It’s the Climax

This chapter contains emotionally intense themes including: Psychological distress and crying, Power imbalance, Implied dubcon elements, Possessiveness and jealousy between characters, Consent-focused dialogue and pacing, Emotional vulnerability, grounding touch, and affectionate dominance.

No explicit sexual content, but highly suggestive, with physical intimacy, aggressive tension, and a strong focus on the reader's agency and emotional state.

Reader discretion advised.

If you're not ready for three emotionally complex fictional men to kneel, growl, and beg for your boundaries, maybe sit this one out.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You go still.

Not calm. Not composed. Just—broken. The human mind can only take so much heat before it warps, before it melts into something pliant, raw, real. And you’ve been pressed—eyes, hands, voices, truths you should’ve never admitted, fantasies you were never supposed to voice out loud.

And now?

They know everything.

And it’s too much.

Your body trembles, knees pulled to your chest, your face buried in them, hiding from the storm you summoned. Tears finally come—hot, helpless, humiliating.

You hear Scaramouche sigh, dramatically. “Oh look. The goddess bleeds.”

“You’re not helping,” John snaps, low and gruff, but not unkind. He kneels next to you—combat-trained, precise—but something soft slips in. His voice lowers. “Hey. Look at me.”

You don’t.

Shinsou doesn’t move. But he doesn’t need to.

His voice threads into your thoughts like smoke.

“Hey,” he murmurs, close but not touching. “It’s alright.”

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” you whisper, voice shredded with shame. “I didn’t mean for anyone to ever—I was alone. It was just pretend. Just—mine.”

“And now it’s ours,” Scaramouche says, prowling behind you like a stormcloud in boots. “You don’t get to erase us. You birthed this. You thought we wouldn’t notice how filthy you really are?”

You curl tighter.

Walker lays a hand on your back. Big. Heavy. Warm. “You’re not disgusting.”

“You’re obsessed,” Shinsou says—quiet, steady. “That’s different. People write stories about us every day. But you… you imagined hard enough to rip the fabric of reality. You think that’s pathetic?”

You don’t respond.

Scaramouche crouches behind you, his breath against your neck. “No, baby. That’s power. That’s magic. And now you’re ashamed of it?”

He laughs.

“Fucking tragic.”

John squeezes your shoulder—not hard. Just a grounding weight.

“You think you’re weak for crying?” he murmurs. “You think it doesn’t turn us the fuck on knowing you were thinking about us this hard? Enough to manifest us here? You wanted something. Maybe not this exactly—but we’re here now. We’re not leaving.”

You lift your face—wet, trembling, vulnerable to the bone.

Shinsou is crouched in front of you, hands in his hoodie pockets, those violet eyes locked to yours.

“You’re allowed to break,” he says. “But don’t hide it.”

Scaramouche hooks a finger under your chin again, rougher now. “You gonna cry for us, sweetheart? Beg? Let us rewrite the stories in your head the way they should’ve gone?”

Walker's eyes darken. “You wanted us.”

“And now,” Shinsou whispers, “you’ve got us.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

John’s breath is ragged—controlled, but only barely. You can see it now, beneath that tactical chill, that iron-spined discipline: the ache. The need. And he’s not even trying to hide it anymore.

You’re trembling in front of him, shattered glass in human form, and instead of stepping away, he steps in.

Close.

He crouches again—no weapons, no mask, just those sharp blue eyes locked to yours like you’re the only thing tethering him to this reality.

His hand brushes your cheek.

It’s so gentle, you think maybe you imagined it. But it’s real. He’s real.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, like it’s just for you. Not sweet. Solid. Like steel wrapped in velvet.

You nod—small, hesitant.

His thumb catches a tear—and lingers at the corner of your mouth, like he’s deciding if he wants to taste it.

“You still scared?”

You nod again.

But your lips part. Just enough. Just barely.

He watches that like it’s a command. Or an invitation.

Then, slow as sin, he leans in. Closer. Inches. Until his breath ghosts over your lips.

“This is what you wanted,” he murmurs, voice rough, eyes locked on your mouth like they're his lifeline.

“Isn’t it?”

You can’t lie. Not now. Not with your pulse drumming so hard it echoes in your teeth.

“Yes,” you whisper.

So he kisses you.

Soft. Barely there. His lips graze yours like a promise, a tease, a slow pull on a thread wrapped around your spine. It’s not hungry yet. It’s reverent. Like he’s tasting something holy. Something he’s not supposed to have.

But that’s the problem.

He always takes what he’s not supposed to have.

Not like Scaramouche. Not cruel. Not like Shinsou—who makes silence feel like surrender. John’s kiss is steady. Like falling into something you already swore to never survive.

Your hands fist in his shirt. Pull him closer without even meaning to. Your mouth opens under his without hesitation now, and John—John—groans. Low. Deep. Like a man breaking rank. Losing protocol. He cups the back of your head and drags you in harder.

You should pull away. Should say something. But all you can do is open your mouth and take it.

The kiss deepens. No longer patient. Tongue sliding against yours, wet, hot, real. His other hand clamps onto your hip, steadying you like you might drift away if he doesn’t anchor you.

You moan into his mouth, helpless.

And that’s when you feel Scaramouche behind you. Still watching. Still smirking. One hand now casually curling around your shoulder.

“Look at you,” he drawls. “All broken and begging, and it only took a little attention from your favorite action figure.”

Walker doesn’t stop kissing you.

Doesn’t flinch.

His teeth scrape your lower lip, claiming you right there with the heat of a man who’s been trained to destroy—and now he’s using it to devour.

And Shinsou?

Still crouched in front of you.

Eyes hooded. Breathing slower. One hand between his thighs, barely gripping the fabric, just enough to betray how hard he’s getting watching you fold.

"You gonna let all three of us in?" he murmurs. "One kiss from him and you're already falling apart... what happens when we stop holding back?"

You try to catch your breath—but you don’t get far.

Scaramouche hasn’t moved, but you feel him.

The heat coming off him is different now. Not amused. Not playful.

You blink up at John, still breathless—and that’s when it happens.

The shift.

A sound. A scoff. Sharp enough to cut through the haze.

Scaramouche’s smirk dies on his lips.

He was fine when it was teasing. When it was power-play. When it was you blushing and stammering under three sets of eyes. That was fun. That was his game.

But now?

Now you’re kissing John like he’s the only one who exists. Like he’s your oxygen. Your gravity. Like he’s the answer to every unspoken prayer your body’s ever made. Your fingers are in John’s hair now, pulling just enough to make him groan into your mouth, and Scaramouche sees red.

Pure, petty, murderous red.

“Wow,” he sneers, venom curling off every syllable like smoke off a firecracker. “So all it takes is one kiss and you forget I even exist? Thought I was the one who lit the fuse in your filthy little mind.”

John finally pulls back—just enough to suck in breath, eyes still locked on yours, hand still tangled in your hair. He doesn’t look at Scaramouche.

That’s what really sets him off.

“Hey,” Scaramouche snaps, stepping around, boots striking hard against the floor. “You think this is a John fantasy now? No. No, sweetheart, I was the one you imagined doing unspeakable things to you behind closed doors. I was the one with the lightning in your veins. And now you’re melting into this walking brick of moral ambiguity like I wasn’t just about to bend you over your own kitchen counter?”

Walker still doesn’t look at him. He just tilts your chin up with two fingers, forces your eyes back to his.

“Don’t listen to him,” he murmurs. “He’s not mad at you. He’s mad he’s not first.”

That earns a bitter little laugh from Scaramouche.

“Oh, that’s cute,” he snarls. “You think this is about order? It’s about claiming.”

Then he’s on you.

Fast.

He grabs your jaw—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to tilt your face toward him, just enough to make you see the frustration burning in those stormy, violet-blue eyes.

“Open your mouth.”

You do.

He doesn’t kiss you—not right away. He breathes against your lips, just barely brushing, torturing you with that tension he’s so good at. Then he pulls back a fraction and smirks.

“No. Not yet. You want it? You earn it. Beg me. Say my name.”

Walker’s hand tightens on your hip.

“Back off, punk,” he growls. “She’s not some chew toy.”

Scaramouche grins wider. “No, you’re just pissed she likes my attitude.”

“Boys…” Shinsou finally speaks, voice like silk and smoke from the shadows, still seated, still watching with those hungry eyes. “…why don’t you let her decide?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glued to you like a slow, steady spell.

“She’s the one who summoned us. She’s the reason we’re all here. She broke the rules. Let her break one more.”

And oh yes she will.

They’re waiting.

All three. Staring. Tense.

Oh, that look in your eyes—like prey with a pulse just shy of panic, trembling but curious, soaked in tension. You lean back, hands behind you fumbling, until your thighs bump the edge of the sofa, and down you go. Slow. Not graceful. More like collapsing. A mess of nerves and heat and what the fuck is happening.

And still—still—you watch them all.

Scaramouche freezes mid-prowl, eyes sharp, mouth open like he had one more vicious quip loaded and ready. But something shifts in him when he sees your chest rise too fast, your hands clutch the edge of a cushion, your pupils flick toward him and stay there.

Fear.

Real, raw, unfiltered fear.

Not the kind he can tease. Not the kind anyone laughs about.

The other kind.

And it hits him harder than a thunderclap.

He straightens. Just a bit. That cocky posture eases—his shoulders drop a few centimeters, his smirk falters, just long enough to show something else behind it. Something he rarely lets surface: uncertainty.

“Hey…” he says, and his voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s lower. Smoother. Quieter. “...You’re really afraid of me?”

You say nothing. Can’t even look at him directly.

That silence cuts deeper than any insult ever could.

“Shit.”

He runs a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, pacing now—but it's different. It’s not for show. He’s thinking. Crashing. Fighting the instinct to lash out, to make it worse.

Then… he drops to one knee.

No theatrics. No leering.

Just him, eye-level with you, hands resting on his thighs.

“Look, I…” He breathes out, glances to the side, then back to you. “I come on strong. Too strong. I know that. I just—when I got dropped into this world, into you, it felt like… like I was supposed to fight for space. And I thought… if I pushed you, I’d get closer.”

Your fingers twitch against the fabric.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he says, softer this time. “Not really. You just… looked like you could take it.”

He glances away again.

“…Guess I was wrong.”

Behind him, Shinsou is watching all of it like a scientist in a lab, one hand pressed to his mouth. Not judging. Just processing.

“Scaramouche,” he says quietly, “that’s the most emotionally intelligent thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Shut up.”

But there’s no venom in it.

Then—a weight beside you. Not too close. Just close enough.

John. Calm. Steady. The gravity in your solar system.

His arm brushes yours on the cushion.

“You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

Shinsou shifts now, slow, deliberate. He doesn’t approach—just stands, taking a few steps, stopping when you glance up. He meets your gaze with nothing in his face but openness. Calm. Curious. Like he’s trying to see you, not pressure you.

And then he says, “What do you need from us right now?”

The room stills.

Even Scaramouche looks up at that.

Because that’s the moment you realize—despite the chaos, despite the heat, despite the overwhelming presence of these three impossible men

————————

They’re all waiting on you.

Your fear matters.

Your pace matters.

You could whisper a word and John would hold you like glass. Scaramouche would back off. Shinsou would read your silence like scripture.

But…

You could also whisper another word—and all three would devour you.

[littleoddwriter]

Cooper Abbott x GN!Reader w/ BPD (Borderline PD) | Mini-Fic in Bullet Point Format

Hey there! I wrote this during the weekend when I was having a longer BPD episode and needed to vent and find comfort. Debated with myself on sharing it, but I also know from my previous BPD-centric writing that it helps others that find themselves in similar situations to mine, so, why not. This is focused around one BPD episode. General BPD!Reader headcanons with Cooper might follow at some point, though. notes/warnings; Gender Neutral!Reader; Reader has Borderline Personality Disorder; BPD Episode; Implied/Referenced Self-Harm & Suicidal Tendencies; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Mentions of Murder(ous Intent) [because it's Cooper, so, duh].

Cooper Abbott Masterlist

You tell Cooper about your diagnosis as soon as you feel like you can trust him with the information. Over time, you’ve learned to be as open about it as you possibly could. That way you could weed out people that didn’t care or that believed in the stigma, and it was also helpful to set boundaries and explain your behaviour to the other person.

Most of the time - especially with the help of therapy - you try to manage your symptoms by yourself. You don’t want to burden anyone with your instability, and you certainly don’t want to risk being abandoned for being ‘too much’ again. But it doesn’t always work to keep it all away from the people closest to you, including Cooper.

He makes you feel safe, more than anyone ever has before him. He gives you the feeling of being seen and heard, and best of all, understood on some level. Not judged. 

When you move in together, it’s a lot more difficult for you to manage your symptoms by yourself, though. It’s hard to mask your feelings either way; but when Cooper is present, it’s like there’s no way to hide from him, for better or worse. 

One day, you have an episode, and you don’t know what to do because none of your recently learned healthy coping mechanisms are working, which only makes you feel worse.

Cooper tries to help. He keeps suggesting things for you to do, distractions, attempts to comfort you, and talks you through it. But it doesn’t help. It only agitates you more. Eventually, you snap at him. 

Regret and guilt tear you up on the inside as soon as your words leave your mouth. And you see the way Cooper falters. It’s rare for his own mask to slip around you. He looks almost murderous for a moment, like he’d want to smash your head into the wall. And it’s terrifying on one hand, but on the other, you wish he’d do exactly that and put you out of your misery.

You leave the room and he lets you, knowing that you’re not helping each other right now, but only making things worse. And once you’re alone, you lose yourself to the episode, after trying so hard to keep it inside and prevent the worst from happening. 

When you’re calm enough to face Cooper again to apologise to him for snapping, he’s gone. It almost drives you into another episode. But then you look at your phone and see that he sent you a message. An emergency at work. You don’t question it, but deep down, you have an odd feeling about the timing of it. Nonetheless, you decide to believe him, to cling onto his words that tell you that he’s going to come back to you, that he didn’t just abandon you over your outburst, and that he may not be as mad at you as he seemed at first.

You can’t get the look of his eyes from that moment out of your head, though. This murderous intent that gleamed at you. Those beautiful brown orbs that usually looked so gentle, suddenly devoid of any affection. Just cold daggers that were waiting to pierce you to death.

In the morning, after a restless night on your end, he returns home to you. He takes care of you, quietly and soothingly, not judging you for what you might have done during the worst of your episode. He lets his lips travel over each spot he knows you love to feel them most. The tenderness of his actions are a harsh contrast to the murder in his eyes the night before. Those same eyes that now look at you like you’re used to. Full of affection and care, and gentleness. 

Once you’re both sitting in silence, you apologise to Cooper, almost frantically. Still terrified that he’ll leave you, just like the rest. But he doesn’t. He accepts your apology and even apologises to you, as well. For having to leave all of a sudden when you were at your worst and needed him most, for not doing anything that helped you; not that it was his fault at all, but you appreciate the sentiment. 

Cooper finishes it with a new gift for you. A piece of jewellery he knew you’d love. He saw it on his way home, he claims, and just had to get it for you as a way to finalise his apology, but also to give you a new physical reminder of his love for you.

[whoslaurapalmer]

the adult horror conversation with yourself of 'i could have tortillas with dinner tonight. i just had tortillas the other day. that's okay. i can, in fact, have tortillas again! i am putting a different filling in them! but if i have these tortillas, i will have a total of six tortillas left in the freezer. eventually i will have to buy more tortillas. by god, girl, you are allowed to eat the things you have in the freezer, instead of feeling like you have to save them for some potential eventuality so you don't run out of them, and like, what situation are you even imagining where the tortillas would be better to have later instead of for this particular dinner??? if you keep feeling like you have to save them for Something you will just not eat the tortillas!! eventually EVERYTHING runs out and you have to buy more of them!! that is the way the world works!! you are allowed to not have things aggressively stockpiled, except for like, tissues, but that was a purchasing incident on mom's card while she was still here, so you just happen to have, a bizarre amount of tissue boxes. AND WHILE YOUR FINANCES ARE STILL BIG RED QUESTION MARKS, YOU CAN, IN FACT, AFFORD TO GO BUY MORE TORTILLAS IF YOU FUCKING WANT TO!!! YOU GET THE STREET TACO SIZE AND THEY'RE LIKE $2.99!!!!! AND WHEN DID YOU EVEN BUY THESE TORTILLAS, HUH???????? YOU DON'T KNOW, DO YOU???? WHICH MEANS YOU HAVE GONE THROUGH THE TORTILLAS AT AN ACCEPTABLE PACE!! WHATEVER THE HELL THAT SENTENCE MEANS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!'

anyway i'm eating the tortillas. or i mean they're on the counter defrosting while i have some chicken toasting in the toaster oven

[hauntedvintagelight]

How am I supposed to feel about this panel as someone who finished reading the webnovel.

This is gonna be the most difficult time for you my ASS.

[pfhwrittes]

there's magic in this misery - part two

part one is here

link to ao3 here

update: i'm currently reworking this fic as of 29th may 2024. existing parts will be deleted and replaced with an updated version when it's done!

TW: depictions of depression, angst, emotional hurt/no comfort, reader is a bit of a dickhead to johnny, swearing, bonnie lad used as a pet name, unreliable narrator.

pairing: john "soap" mactavish x ftm!reader (he/him pronouns used for reader)

word count: roughly 1k of angst. typos and grammatical errors are still quite likely so i apologise for those.

__

johnny comes back sometime later. it’s not as light behind your drawn curtains and you think you’ve probably fallen asleep at some point. you can tell he’s trying to be quiet but he’s forgotten to take off his boots. his footsteps reverberate through the thin floors and thinner carpet as he moves through the flat into the living room and then back towards the hallway. the downstairs neighbours will probably complain the next time they see you. oh well. 

you resist the urge to check the time so you can berate yourself for wasting another day in bed. lazy, useless, selfish hisses the voice, too cowardly to find out how much of your life you’re wasting. the voice is interrupted by a knock on the door jamb of your bedroom.

“i picked up takeaway on the way home if yer wantin’ any.” it guts you to hear johnny sounding so unsure from the doorway of your bedroom. half in the hallway, half in the gloom. 

“yeah” you pause to clear your throat but the lump that’s taken root persists “that sounds nice.” 

you disentangle yourself from the blanket that’s wrapped itself around your legs like an anchor. a can rattles ominously on the bedside cabinet as you force yourself to stand up and take the first few steps toward johnny. 

johnny just waits in the doorway for you to join him. fuck, it shouldn’t be this hard. you stop just out of arm's reach and wait for him to move so you can shuffle into the living room. 

“can i hug ye?” johnny asks gently.

“i stink, johnny.” the words are barely out of your mouth before he tugs you into his arms. the heat of his chest against your front is nice, as is the broad palm he places on your back. he’s holding you so gently that you could easily pull out of his embrace if you wanted to but you allow yourself to sink into him. to leech the life out of him just for a moment. 

“i don’t care. just want to hold ye for a minute.” he sounds so sad that you immediately feel guilty. it’s your fault he’s feeling like this. if you just tried harder to be normal he wouldn’t have to lie to you. you tense in johnny’s arms hearing that darkly seductive voice again, the one that just won’t seem to let you enjoy any fucking thing even for a single minute. 

fuck. when did get so hard to be a good boyfriend? when did it get so hard to be a good person? you don’t know any more. the slow creeping sadness has taken root in your chest and thoughts and now you’re stuck, tangled up in a mess of misery. 

johnny pulls back and his piercing blue gaze flickers between your own. 

“talk to me. what’s goin’ on in there?”

you swallow. that fucking lump of self hatred still sticks in your throat.

“nothing. i’m fine.”

“i wish ye wouldnae lie tae me bonnie lad.” johnny’s lips twist and he huffs a soft sigh through his nose. “i wish you wouldnae lie to yourself.” 

you blink, stunned for a second before a wave of irritation rises in your chest. 

“what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” you snap. you feel brittle under the weight of your emotion after feeling numb for so long. 

“well, ‘s just that simon says -” you’re too pissed off to even offer a wisp of a smile at johnny’s slip up and cut him off before he can even finish.

“simon? you told simon about me?” you step back from johnny’s warmth. “did you just sit around the pub all afternoon and tell simon how disgusting i am right now?” your voice has risen in volume, keeping step with the rising tide of your irritation."how much of a failure i am?"

johnny jerks back frowning slightly. 

“no, that’s no’ what i’m sayin’ -” johnny rubs a hand over the stubble on his cheek before letting it drop. “just when simon an’ gaz asked where you were -” 

a sardonic laugh erupts from you, noxious and bubbling. you barely recognise it as your own. 

“oh so you told both of them how disappointed you are in me!” you accuse. deep down you know that's not true, that johnny hasn't spent hours flaying you open to two of his closest friends but you can’t seem to stop yourself. why can’t you stop yourself from lashing out? fuck.

“steamin’ jesus! are you gonna let me finish a sentence or no’?” johnny’s face has gone red and his chest is heaving with poorly tempered frustration. you’ve never seen him like this. yes, you’ve bickered before. you’ve even had disagreements before. but you’ve never seen him look so angry and underneath that anger look so hurt. 

your temper flares again, apropos of nothing, and before you know it you’re spewing forth every twisted thought that’s plagued you over the last week. your thoughts spill into the space between the both of you, filling it with bile. with darkness. with a self loathing so strong it coats your tongue and throat, even as you wish you could snatch back every word. until finally you say something so unforgivable johnny’s immense patience with you snaps.

“yer aff yer fuckin’ heid if you think i’m puttin’ up wi’ this!” johnny hurls over his shoulder as he stomps towards the door.

“take the fucking takeaway with you! i don’t even like indian!” you yell as the door to your flat slams closed. “dickhead!”

the silence rings in your ears where you’ve frozen in the threshold of your bedroom and you release a shaky breath, all the anger and hurt that has built up draining away leaving you feeling more numb than before.

you stagger back to bed, the takeaway cooling on the coffee table in the living room forgotten. 

you nudge the bedside cabinet as you clumsily crawl back into bed, limbs heavy. the coke can tips over and you burst into tears. 

well you’ve done it now, croons the voice, you’ve scared off one of the few people that will ever love a headcase like you.

you bury your face into your pillow and sob.

alone.

[orcelito]

I wrote. 1k words today!!!!!!!! For dad vash au!!!! So the document is now 3.5k words long (almost a third of them written just Today)(I've been working on this WIP off and on for Months now.....) so that's exciting!!!!!

Idk there was just a feeling midday of like. My brain being surprisingly clear?? Weird bc I didn't get enough sleep last night. But I took full advantage of it.

Hope that this kinda thing keeps up. Maybe I can actually fucking post something finally.

[oh-meow-swirls]

it's kind of weird to me that they didn't bother releasing sushi and tempura internationally at all but at the same time i'm kinda glad they didn't cuz like. yo-kai watch was financially failing in the west by the time 3 released. i feel like if they had released sushi and tempura the franchise would've completely tanked before we got sukiyaki which would've sucked. honestly if anything i feel like it's more surprising that we got all three versions of 2 instead of them just releasing psychic specters but tbf i think yo-kai watch was doing well in the west when 2 released. 2 is just inexplicably what killed the franchise despite being a masterpiece-

[rosesradio]

finish ch 6 of the CE revision & added 1100 words to the chapter...

[darklyndivinely]

I was interested in learning guitar. I asked a couple friends of mine whether to pick up acoustic or electric, and both said to go for acoustic. I did extensive research on Google as well and most articles say that it doesn't really matter. The only con to electric guitar that I see is the pricing, but I'm hoping to go second hand, so that might fall in my budget if I save for a couple months. But I still wanna confer with someone experienced. If anyone's got any advice, please drop it.

[olivesrcute2]

-The Soldier, The Ballad, and The Quiet Hypnotic-

Chapter 2: Fiction Breaks Reality

You never meant for them to know. You didn’t write it down. You didn’t summon them. But fiction doesn’t stay buried—not when it starts to breathe. And now they’re reading you like a confession you never meant to sign.

WordCount: 1,050 words

Content Warning:

This chapter contains themes of psychological manipulation, non-consensual mind control, violation of privacy (phone access), and strong power imbalance. Mentions of explicit material, fantasizing, and emotional exposure. Reader discretion is advised.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You break.

Right there. On the floor. Breath hitching. Tears prick at the edges of your eyes, but they don’t fall—too stunned, too frayed to cry. You start laughing—dry, short, sharp. Not happy. Not sane.

Scaramouche blinks. “What the fuck is so funny?”

You stare at him. At all of them. Three nightmares. Three obsessions. John with that no-nonsense command presence you used to rewind scenes for.

Shinsou with the sleepy-eyed cool you memorized lines from. Scaramouche—the arrogant, reckless bastard you used to argue with in your head while grinding levels, always picking his voice lines over the others.

And now they’re all here.

In flesh. In breath. In blood.

You can smell them. And they smell exquisite.

“No no no no,” you mutter, shoulders shaking. You lean back until your head knocks the wall, hard. “You’re not real. You’re not. I made you up.”

They freeze.

“I didn’t make you up, I mean—fuck—you’re characters. John, you’re from a movie. Marvel. You work for S.H.I.E.L.D., or Hydra, depending on the timeline—I don’t know anymore—you shoot people and brood a lot and do that thing with your jaw when you’re trying not to care.”

He stiffens. Just slightly. Like you’d struck something under the surface.

“And you—Scaramouche—you’re from a fucking video game. Genshin. A playable boss. I watched you monologue while I dodged your attacks. I hated you. I loved you. I spent weeks farming for you and now you’re in my living room insulting me like I glitched you in on purpose—”

His face is blank. Pale. That venomous arrogance muted by something colder: disbelief.

“Shinsou,” you breathe, eyes flicking to the last of them, “you’re an anime character. Class 1-C. Quirk: brainwashing. You’re supposed to be a student. You drink vending machine coffee and fight robots and train to be a hero. You’re not supposed to be here. None of you are.”

Silence.

Scaramouche speaks first. “You’re delusional.”

“No—no, you don’t get it,” your voice rises, hysterical. “I know everything about you. I know your voices, your stories, your birthdays—your trauma arcs! I read fanfiction about you. I—Oh God—I have screenshots. You’re not real. You can’t be. You're—you're supposed to stay on the screen, not—”

John crosses the space in two strides. Grabs your wrist. His grip is firm and present.

“Does this feel fictional?” he growls.

You whimper. He lets go—barely.

Shinsou leans in, voice low. “What else do you know, then? What happens next in our stories?”

“I don’t—” you choke, “—I don’t know anymore. You’re not following the script. This isn't part of anything I've read.”

Scaramouche stares at you, unnerved now. “You said you read fanfiction.”

You freeze.

All three of them, watching.

John tilts his head slowly. “What kind of fanfiction?”

Your mouth dries.

Shinsou’s smile is small. Too small.

“You wrote it, didn’t you?”

And now you’ve really done it.

You gave them the keys.

To the real you.

They don’t need to interrogate you anymore. They just need to read.

Scaramouche grins, slow and menacing. “Let’s dig through that brain of yours, sweetheart. Find out exactly what you thought we’d do to you when no one else was watching.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“...Please. I didn’t have to write anything. All I had to do was imagine it,” you say, weakly.

Oh, you shouldn't have said that.

The air changes—thickens, slow and cloying, like honey turned sour.

Each pair of eyes darkens—different shades of hunger.

Scaramouche moves first. He laughs—not that manic villain laugh.

No, this one’s soft. Disbelieving. Delighted. He drops into a crouch again, face inches from yours, nose wrinkled in something like perverse joy.

“You imagined it,” he repeats, voice dropping, curling around the syllables like silk over a blade. “That’s all it took?”

Walker’s jaw tightens.

Shinsou just blinks, slowly. He doesn’t need to say anything yet—he’s memorizing you now. Every twitch, every breath, like he's building your mind in reverse.

Scaramouche’s gloved fingers brush your temple. Light. Teasing.

“No fanfic. No scribbled journals. You just thought about us. All those nights, huh? Lights off, maybe under the covers... You thought about my voice in your ear.” His hand lowers, and hovers over your chest without touching. “Thought about how I’d sound—how I’d feel—if I really showed up. Didn't you?”

Your breath catches. You don't answer. You don’t have to.

“God, you’re sick,” he whispers, and his grin says he loves it.

John shifts. Slowly. Walks over to the shelf, eyes scanning.

He picks something up. Your phone. Flips it in his hand.

“You didn’t write it,” he says, flatly. “But it’s in there, isn’t it? Search history. Bookmarks. Probably some very curated tags.”

Your heart plummets.

He turns the screen to you. “Password.”

Heat flushes down your neck like nausea. Your palms go cold. You clamp your lips shut.

Don't say anything. Don’t give them more.

You don’t answer.

“Fine,” Shinsou says softly. “Let me try.”

He crouches too—this calm little storm across from the chaos that is Scaramouche—and says it gently:

“Tell me your password.”

You try to resist. God, you try—but your mouth moves before your brain can stop it, and the numbers fall out like confession.

John taps it in. Unlocks the screen.

They’re in.

He scrolls. Clicks. You watch his eyes track. One slow eyebrow rises.

Shinsou’s head tilts. “Damn. You weren’t kidding.”

And then Scaramouche just howls—full-on cackling, because Walker has clearly hit gold. Your history. Your saved posts. All those mental scenarios? Apparently not so untraceable after all.

“Oh, this is rich,” Scaramouche purrs—and suddenly he’s in your lap, straddling you, eclipsing the light. His hand grabs your jaw, not hard but firm—claiming your attention like he owns it.

“You fantasized us into existence. And now we’re here. I should call you ‘creator’—but I think pet fits better.”

“Stop—” you whisper, voice cracking.

“Why?” Shinsou asks, genuine. “You wanted this.”

“No I didn’t!”

“You didn’t?” Johns’s voice cuts in, hard. “You really expect us to believe that? When every click, every scroll, every filthy little thought left a breadcrumb trail straight to this exact moment?”

You can’t speak. Your body’s too hot, too frozen.

You were just walking home.

And now they know what lives in your head.

Scaramouche leans in, mouth against your ear. “Guess it’s time you learned what your imagination really summoned.”

[mantisgodsdomain]

Sometimes we feel the need to put a big 'ol disclaimer on things that reads "just because we're bitching about something doesn't mean we hate it without exception" because a lot of the time, it's really not that we hate the core thing. Most of the time, it's that we don't like a certain direction it's been taken, or a certain approach that's dominating in Average Opinions, or... well, you get the idea. We don't dislike the thing itself, we dislike the direction it's being taken, because we don't believe there's such thing as a bad idea for a story, just bad handling.

[bitebitesnap]

I don't know much of what's going on in Super Heroes: Big Bang Mission as I don't watch it nor have I played Xenoverse so I'm kind of going off speculation. But I keep toying with an AU with Xenoku and Vegeta where they're from several hundred years in the future, long after Bulma and Chi-Chi pass away (since as far as I know, the Dragon Balls can't bring back people who die naturally). After growing desperately lonely in their years of life (since they've become so powerful they kind of became divine in a way which extended their lifespans immensely) they accidentally get involved with the Reader, who becomes entangled into their lives soon after. Eventually after a near-death she's bound to both Vegeta and Goku through some kind of energy sharing magic that binds their lives in some spectral way, which leads to her being their shared mate.

Also Trunks gets involved too though that's a slightly more hazy part of this.