#Lost sparks AU

[kat1nkulta]

Redraw of a post i made one day ago

+ some misc thoughts about the AU

[gomzdrawfr]

[oc rambles - civillian au]

Cooking when you don’t know the ingredients (aka pre-research on a topic you have zero clue on)

Idk what kind of job Price will be, but Im thinking something more niche, like idk a tour guide(for some reason), or forest ranger(mmm), journalist? Maybe he’s travelling around documenting? Office jobs???? An editor??? A bar owner???

Much to think, but im very excited to draw non-traumatized Raven, she’s a lot more soft, less intimidating…she’s happy…URGH SHE’S SMILING….

[allsoundwavesarebeautiful]

IDW Galvatron is canonically aware of there being other universes where he and Megatron are The Same Guy in body and mind, which makes him very normal abt his universe's Megatron when they end up cohabitating on the Lost Light.

but any time he tries to explain it, Megatron just thinks this guy is having a mental breakdown and he feels bad bc he doesn't know what to do. he, later regretting this, points out that maybe Galvatron is trying to emotionally replace Arcee and Galv, who didn't consider this angle before, thinks this is a great idea so he gets even more normal about Megatron.

[panie-wanie-dean-bean]

Content: Talk of dead parents, feelings of emptiness, fucked up hybrid society, and Jean being flirty

It’s quiet

It’s just so fucking quiet now

Your house is just too big without them. You and your parents used to live here together before the crash. How does an entire commercial airliner crash on a clear sunny day? You don’t know, the company told all when you dragged their asses into court, but you can’t even remember what they said. It was never about getting answers, you were just so angry. You couldn’t kill anyone over it, you have a reputation to uphold, but you could sue them for everything they were worth

But it didn’t make you feel better. Hell, if anything it just made things worse once the dust settled. You used all your fire in that case, you poured your entire soul into it, and now it’s over. It’s over, and your parents are still dead, and you’re still in this fucking house. You can’t sell it, you’ve lived here almost your entire life, all of those happy memories are tied to this place. Their bedroom is in this house. Untouched since you dropped them off at the airport

You’re not sure what you need to do, but you can’t keep going like this. You need to think of something before you start turning to more drastic measures. What do people do when they don’t feel like people? You’ve already tried touching the grass on your lawn, you’re not sure why anyone thinks that would help. Maybe the internet could tell you? You’re sure most of the advice you’ll find will be nonsense but a stopped clock is right twice a day right? What else do you have to lose

You unlock your phone and try a few searches, “how to stop feeling bad” “how to get over death” “how to feel again” wow. Ok, you expected some shit but “Just smile more!” is frankly insulting to anyone, let alone people who are going through shit. You’re about to give up and switch over to youtube when a sidebar ad pops up, it’s advertising Hybrids near you! The ad itself is obviously a link to some virus but the idea isn’t half bad actually

You’ve heard a lot of good things about hybrids, you don’t think you’re cut out to own an actual pet but hybrids can talk. If they need something they can just tell you, and you do have quite a few guest rooms. You back out of that tab and input a new search

“Hybrid stores near me”

The closest hybrid shop wasn’t too far from your house actually. Well, some would consider thirty minutes far, but considering how remote your house is you’re used to having to drive out a bit just to get groceries. That’s probably a part of why it was so damn quiet there, any neighbors you did have were a five minute drive at closest. Your dad was probably to blame for that, he always wanted a lot of land for some reason. He was silly like that…

Oh you’re here. You take a deep breath in…and out before getting out of your car and walking into the shop. As you enter you notice a few things off the bat. One, the seemingly only employee was sitting behind the counter on their phone, their feet propped up on the counter itself. Two, it was surprisingly tidy, you expected a bit more chaos from a shop like this. And three, there were no hybrids to be seen

You excuse yourself and ask the employee if they have any stock right now “Huh? Oh, yeah we got 'em. They’re in the back” You’re about to ask if they could ask them to come out when they place two fingers in their mouth, producing possibly the loudest whistle known to man. You hear shuffling and at least one small crash before a few hybrids emerge from a door at the back of the store “There you go, mingle or whatever and tell me who you want when you’re done”

A part of you wants to ring them out for their poor customer service but you think better of it, the world doesn’t need more Karens. Now that all of the hybrids are out in the store they’ve all settled into a few seating areas around the room, you guess that you should just join one of them? Fuck, in your haste to stop feeling like shit you forgot you suck at talking to people. Well, you can talk to people just fine in a business setting, but you’d hesitate to call the masks people put on for those “people”

You shake your head and just pick a direction to start walking in, you wind up at a little booth with three hybrids. A dog hybrid sits in the far corner of one side, seemingly making room for you, while a fox and rabbit hybrid sit across from him. You ask if you can sit with them, the fox hybrid lets out a small laugh before standing to greet you “Of course you may, it’s an honor to have you here” they reach for your hand and give the back of it a small kiss “Jean Laurent, and you?”

Oh…oh dear. It feels like pure warmth is radiating from where he kissed your hand, that same warmth spreading down into your fingertips before racing up your arm, your neck, and finally settling on your cheeks. When you thought about getting a hybrid to “feel something” this was not what you had in mind…though, you couldn’t truthfully say you didn’t like it

You give him your name in response, thankful at how steady your voice sounds despite how your heart is racing. You settle into the booth seat and strike up a conversation with all of them, learning that the dog hybrid’s name is Bo and the rabbit is called Ian. They’re all pretty cute, Ian’s lop ears being of particular note. Talking to all of them felt…nice. Talking to them felt. They were all a little awkward save for Jean, who seemed to just ooze charisma. You could tell he was putting up a front, but in your line of work that’s hardly new

All of them seemed to have a wall up honestly, not like you could blame them. When you’re in a place like this your best bet is to try and literally “sell yourself” as well as possible. As you talk to them you turn your attention to Bo and notice something. His eyes. On top of being an adorable shade of blue, they’re glazed over. You know that look, you’ve seen it in the mirror too many times to count after the crash. What has this poor pup been through?

When you check your phone you’re genuinely shocked at how much time has passed, talking to the three of them felt so natural to you. It hurt to excuse yourself from their table, you didn’t want to, you never wanted to leave them. But you have to, you have to say goodbye so you can have some time to yourself. How you’re ever going to pick just one of them is a fucking mystery to you, they’re all so cute, and they all need a home eventually. Why couldn’t you just keep all of them?

…Why, couldn’t you keep all of them? You’re rich, you have a big ass house, and you’re lonely as shit. Why the fuck couldn’t you get all three of them? You don’t think there’s any law against it. You walk over to the register and ask the employee if there are any rules about getting more than one hybrid, they laugh “No rules against it, but are you sure you’re up for it? Just one’s a pretty big handful, especially that mutt” They point towards Bo before continuing “He’s been returned five times this year alone, all of em say he starts off great but gets annoying quick” Returned him? Returned him? You take a deep breath, getting angry over that won’t do anyone any good. Not before you get their addresses from Bo anyway. You tell them you’re more than up for the challenge, they roll their eyes “Fine, but it won’t be cheap” You take a few hundreds out of your wallet and ask if it will do. They take the money and hold it under the light, letting out a small “holy shit” when they find that they’re real “Uh…yeah, yep! I’ll uh…I’ll get your change”

[harveybwabbit92]

{Lost in time AU: when R/n gets sucked away into the time vortex, Riku, Zero, 80 and Zoffy and Father of Ultra gather at her home and discuss how to get her back.]

Belial, shows them a bracelet on his left wrist: This is a Cyexian diamond bracelet, I made two of them from a piece of a Glow void asteroid and gave the other one to R/n when I proposed to her she never takes it off.

{Every looks at him.]

Father of Ultra: …You gave your wife radioactive jewelry?

Belial: The asteroid I got it from was a dud. Its emission is pretty much harmless, Ken, but it has a unique signature that gives off a faint glow when it senses it's partner nearby; which makes it very easy identify.

Zoffy: …You gave your wife a tracking device?

[Everyone gives Belial an uncomfortable look.]

Belial: …It was for a good reason.

80: In what situation is there ever a good reason to give someone a tracking device without telling them it's a tracking device?

Belial: This one.

{Pause}

Zero: ...Urg, This gives me chills to say it, but Belial's got a point.

Riku, while trying to calm his fussy sister down: So you think you can use that bracelet to look for R/n and get her back?

Belial: It's only shot we've got.

[Cyexian (They're the Alien oc race I came up with) facts: Cyexian diamonds are found in a asteroid field that the inhabitants of the Zera nebula call the glowing void, the diamonds are described to be breathtakingly beautiful they're usually teal in color; but sometimes come in green or even rarer purple.

However the diamonds are dangerously radioactive, in fact they're used as a main power source by the Cyexians and when the diamonds are completely drained of radiation they're sold off as regular jewelry, the asteroid Belial had mined was considered a dud because it gave off little to no radiation and was deemed safe to give to R/n.]

[i-mean-technically]

Thinking more on the tfa au and like.

TFA and names.

Names are interesting bc they're given in boot camp with the Autobots, which has some BAD connotations, especially bc of how totalitarian it is there. But that's post war. Meaning that this was something that changed either during or after the war.

But focusing on The Boys(tm) and how they got their names in this AU.

Optimus, a play on optimist. Either praising or making fun. And I think that Kup gave Op his name, so it was a gift instead of a belittlement.

Sentinel, a guardian. Again, praising or making fun? We see in the show that Senti is VERY paranoid and high strung, his anxiety is well hidden but there. I think his was meant as an insult. Which ofc is a blow to his ego.

Lets play around with Elita too.

Elita, elite. If she wasn't the top of the class then she was close. Elite means best of the best.

From the beginning they were singled out in some way. Op named lovingly by a war hero, Senti made fun of for a mental health condition, and Elita named to show everyone that she's clearly better than everyone else just like Ultra.

Names have power. To give.

Or to take.

What did their names take from them?

@transingthoseformers i'm going crazy with the world building already help

[twisted-wonderland-shenanigans]

So...

Do you guys know that thing about creative writers with ideas (plot bunnies) and how they always seem to multiply one after the other? That's me with Twisted Wonderland AUs. I can't help it! The series just reminds me of all the stories I loved as a kid, with characters that had depth and / or developed or we got to learn more about--even if it was stupid little things they do in their everyday life! I've grown to appreciate it in ways I never imagined I could any form of media. ;;v;;

To be honest...this game has given me the creativity to consistently create and build upon ideas, and the support you all have given me has meant so much. I can't thank you all enough for sticking with me for so long, and for sending me all the ideas or scenarios you all have been daydreaming of. ;;v;;

So I wanted to give a bit of an update on a few things I'm going to do with the blog:

1) Create a rules page. I've gone far too long without updating my original set, and I feel it's long overdue 😂 Plus, it'll help me keep track of certain things!

2) Go back through and update the links on the Masterlists with posts I may have missed. I didn't realize that some things I was referencing in some of my latest posts (aka the grape incident in the monster!AU) were missing, so I'm gonna comb through my posts and make sure I label and organize them easier for you guys to find (and for me to refresh myself on what I write)!

3) Answering asks (of course). Things are a little slow going and my muse has been getting finicky with me, but I will make sure I get to everyone's asks! Some I may answer because they're quick and easy, others...I may end up getting an idea for something more expansive, so that'll take a bit longer. 😅

And finally, 4) Introducing a(nother) AU:

Twisted Wonderland!Mermaid AU!!!

Honestly, this started because I got inspired by the artwork by this artist here where they drew the characters based on Floyd's nicknames for them, and it started as a Marine Biologist AU where Yuu is a marine biologist and taking care of the mermaid bois (all 22 boys + one fire-breathing cat) buuuuuut...at the moment, Yuu getting shipwrecked and living on the island with the mermaid boys wouldn't leave me alone. 😂

As well as an idea where Yuu is a full-blooded Kaiju/born a Kaiju and has Land Before Time like adventures because I got emotional at baby Littlefoot hatching, but who's counting the ideas? Certainly not me!

Anyway, I wanted to share a snippet of the prologue I have written that's currently under construction, so the final product may differ. I'm honestly really excited about this AU too, and I hope you all enjoy it as much as I do~ ;;v;;

Snippet under a read-more because this post is going to be long anyway 😂 Enjoy!

Oh, and if I need to tag it a certain way for future posts, please let me know and I'll be sure to add them!

//////------------//////

If anyone were to ask Yuu what they were going to be doing over the summer, they likely would have told them: catch up on their reading, or playing video games, or any number of different things they had planned. Even just relaxing at home or on the beach would have been an enticing offer.

A scuba diving trip was not something they expected to get dragged into.

“First time diving?”

“Was it that obvious?” Yuu asked, one hand gripping the bar on the seat next to them until their knuckles were white while the other kept hold of the oxygen tank sitting in front of their flippered feet.

“Yeah…kinda obvious for a first timer,” the instructor said with a chuckle, the man giving them a reassuring pat. “It can be a bit nerve-wracking for new divers, but you’ll be fine. You’re one of the contest winners, right?”

“I put my name in as a joke, I didn’t think I’d actually win!” Peering over the edge of the railings, Yuu couldn’t make out anything in the dark water. “I…thought we were going to dive near the shallows closer to land. What are we doing so far out?” they asked, swearing they saw a big shadow pass by…only to realize it was the ship’s frame reflecting on the water.

“I know we’re a lot further out than we normally would for first time divers, but we had problems with our normal ship and the only one that was available was this ship a couple of marine biologists were using.”

“…why didn’t you just cancel and set it for another day?”

“Try telling that to my bosses,” the man muttered under his breath before the smile was back on his face. “Anyway, I think this will be a fun change to the program! These biologists are actually working to explore the reactions of marine life to musical instruments, and we’ll get to see it firsthand ourselves!”

Before Yuu could respond, the ship came to a stop and the driver said, “We’re here! You folks ready to go diving while we get set up? There’s a coral reef not far below us, so you’ll have plenty of time to sightsee.”

“Yup! Okay, so let’s go over the basics again, and I’ll make sure your gear is on properly.”

Yuu listened nervously as the instructor walked through each procedure and rule of diving, the wetsuit sticking tightly to their body as the tank weighed heavily on their back. This was not how they imagined their first time scuba diving would be—they could barely even make out the shore from a wave in the distance. Finally—with mask secured and breathing apparatus in—the instructor gave them a reassuring nod…before falling backwards into the water with a  ‘sploosh!’. For a brief moment they froze, but the motion of the ship and the weight on their back knocked them off balance and forced them backwards.

Fwoosh!!

[inthewychelm]

wait, has anyone done eddie leaving hawkins after the events of season4, be it government pressure or just hightails it bc fuck hawkins, but like instead of going to the city(chicago or indianapolis) or out west to make it big, no he goes south, back to tennessee, he ends up making the right connections with producers and such and eventually makes it big as a musician/songwriter except the party never finds out because he's working under a pseudonym And in a totally different genre (im learning towards folk/bluegrass)

anyway this specific blorbo thought was brought to you by "who will sing for me" by the stanley brothers playing at work a lot recently

[onawhimsicot]

havent really been online much for like the past month because ive been watching my sister marathon p5r and she just beat it for the first time like 2 days ago so a second wave of persona content is hitting this blog, i am even more unwell about goro akechi this time around👍

[dent-de-leon]

Okay, but…did Aldreda even know their parents made Lucien lure victims to the hag’s cottage? ;; Did Lucien keep going through with it because he was afraid they’d force Aldreda to do it if he ever stopped—

[hinotorihime]

head in hands. how do i get excited about my big wip again

[13urningstars]

🎀 RIBBON

𝐎𝐂 𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐒!

🎀 RIBBON - how would they fit into worlds / au's? what au's would you like to try out? what fictional world would they fit / not fit into?

MAN YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND HOW EXCITED I WAS TO ANSWER THIS. I've been enabled. I LOVE au's so much you don't understand it. So i have many au's/variants for cherr, both with canon stuff (show variants including TFP, TFA, Shattered glass, ect) and just basic au's (fantasy, mermaid, ect) so this will be a VERY long post hehhehehe This list doesn't include Cherr's main verse (IDW post war) or her live action verse since i don't know where I'm going with that yet, as well as show variants that i have finished watching but may be added later (including : G1, The unicron trilogy and the prime wars trilogy). I included Beast wars purely because while i might not have finished the series, i already have a pretty solid idea for this variant.

Put under a read more because this is a LONG post

CANON VERSES

ALIGNED

TFP : Same backstory as her main verse. Went on a personal mission to find Optimus prime and his team, eventually finding them after crash landing on earth after her ship got caught and damaged in an asteroid storm. Crash landed in France, and had time to fix up the majority of her ship before ruining into the team while they were on a mission. The teams permanent demolitions expert since wheeljack isn't the kind to stay. The guardian to two human children, Jennie and her babysitter Vera

Rescue bots academy : Would be included as a guest teacher occasionally. She drop's in to bother Joyride (My rescue bot oc), and to give lessons on general safety business (due to her.. experience with explosives), but most of the time she just likes visiting the kids, and teaching them about niche earth things.

Robots in disguise 2015 : Travel's between earth and cybertron, spending most of her time on earth despite the opportunity to go back "home". She travel's around, and ends up coming around to occasionally bother bee and his team once she got word that he was back on the planet. Jennie is 12 and vera is 20 and in college.

CYBERVERSE

While pretty similar to her other verses, cyberverse cherry holds on a bit more to what she was like before the war. A bit more cheeky and mischievous, and just slightly more bitchy and bright. She's as can be and still holds all her normal traits, but she's also just also slightly more willing to dance the line of danger.

WAR FOR CYBERTRON

Pretty similar in terms of everything compared to her main verse. Lore accurate storewide, Cherr stays behind with elita and her team to defend cybertron and dies during the process, but her Beast wars variant would be in this verse as well.

BEAST WARS

One of the pods that fell from the maximal ship, cherr ends up adopting the form of a Galah (pink and grey cockatoo) as her alt mode. She has no original name in this verse, or if she does, no one knows what it is, instead calling her "cherry". Quick and light on her feet, she the maximals eye i the sky along with airazor, and just a BIT of a pyromaniac. [This one's iffy, since i haven't actually finished the series. Im just really attached to bird cherry]

EARTHSPARK

Fun fact! Earthspark was originally her main verse before i switched it to tfp (and then switched that to her post war IDW verse). While the same as most of her other verses in term of personality, Cherr's role is what changes the most in this one. SURE, she's still a demolitions expert, but after having given a proper chance to explore earth after the war, Cherr took it. She travels around the world as basically a tourist, keeping an eye out for any bots making trouble. She knows something's up with G.H.O.S.T, and makes an effort the make things better for the trapped cons whenever she visits any of the detention centers, even if she's breaking the rules to do it. Extra rations, gossip, general company. At one point she got roped into one of the fighting rings in France and became its champion for a year or two before busting out. She's on a personally fueled vendetta to find and shut down any ring she can.

TFA

A singer high on the charts who's mysteriously gone missing. Early on in her life, cherry took rossana under her wing, and taught her everything she knew. She holds no preference for sides, a true neutral in this verse. However, something happed, and she fled the planet. She lives in hiding on earth, having stolen some tech and making herself a holoform projector, continuing her music career there. Constantly mistaken for an Autobot.

LOST LIGHT

Instead of staying on cybertron and finding work in the body guarding business, the moment rodimus sent out the invite to join the crew, cherr jumped at the chance. In this verse, she's practically the same as her main, since this is a bit of an "alternate timeline" thing, but she does have more chances to find cool spots to herself. She wander's around a lot, unless she's at swerve's or mirage's. [Haven't actually finished the MTMTE/LL comics, so things may change later on who knows]

SHATTERED GLASS

This is the verse where she's the most different in every sense. She starts out the same of course, minus her paintjob, which instead of pink white and blue, is dark grey purple and red. But over the years, especially during her music career, she gets twisted. A Yearning to be known, to be loved, adored. In this verse, many of the rumors about her in her normal verse ARE true. Yes, she purposefully killed her producer, and yes, her vocal mod is illegal. In this verse, instead of merely projecting her voice, her voice is able to lure in most bots that hear it like a siren, cue the alias (although, whether or not it'll affect a bot, changes on their amount of will, as well as a few other factors). She never left Cybertron in this verse, and thus has a modified version of her design during the contract. Siren in confident and a flirt and just a bit of a pyromaniac, but also cruel to those who earn her displeasure. Her collections are a bit more... morbid here. Your safe really, as long as she likes you enough

AU'S

DECEPTICON

Au where Cherr never got into the music industry, and thus, learning about the war earlier in this verse, joined the side of the cons. She's an under cover spy within the autobot ranks, due to her deceivingly sweet nature. An amazing liar, with many skill's acquired from the streets and unlost during her (non-existent) career, the femme is not one to be underestimated. Due to not having entered the contract, All of her mods are illegally acquired, and her name changed. Here she isnt cherrybomb, no. Here she's known as Incandescence, but most call her Des.

HUMAN/SPECIES SWAP

Cheryl Benoit. An orphan adopted and raised by her parents, Reyna and Richard. A good life to the beginning on her life, after having been offered a music contract a year of two after graduating, Cheryl, unaware of the consequences, accepted only to be roped into an abusive contract. After a fire burned down the main studio, the girl took her chance, and is currently on the run, travelling the world with some other worldly femme (Swap au Thalia, who's a transformer in this verse)

MERFOLK

In an au where cybertronians aren't really aliens at all, and instead an advanced species that live deep in the earth's oceans. I have three variants for this au in terms of designs. 1) the classic mermaid, with human upper halves. Simple and basic. 2) Where still human-ish, merfolk are more alien in nature. Extra limbs, unatural eyes and skin colors, antenna's and coming in variant sizes. (An offshoot of this is a mer versions of the classic cybertronian softbody art style). And finally 3) Where ocean living, cybertronians are still somewhat mechanical. In this au, cherr's story has many variants, but the current fav is one where she's captured by humans, and her voice is used at entertainment at a classy exotic restaurant.

FANTASY

Simple fantasy setting? Cherr is definitely a fairy of some kind. Delicate, but also with her own genre of danger. Able to change sizes due to magic. Pink little gal. Not much on this au in general yet other then the very basic concept.

FAIRYTALE

A story of a simple maiden girl, married into a lavish life against her wishes, who runs away to become a knight. Not much on this au in general yet other then the very basic concept.

CRYPTID

Montserous in nature at first glance, cherr is hard to spot. A creature of flames and embers, who's crackling voice is rumored to lure human's to dance around her form, to revel in an prison like happiness. She doesn't mean harm, just for friendship. Nevertheless, if you're ever to spot a mysterious flame like glow moving around the dark, paired with enchanting songs that seems to seep into your thoughts. Do not follow it. Cover your ears and hide. [She doesnt really trap those, but many of the friends she have gained are ones who have run away from home, or a bad situation and never seen again, and well. Rumors spread]

[remixofpraxus]

Art of Remix!

This is her normal look.

Most often she will have the visor and no mask.

This is her stealth look, most often used on Special Ops missions.

Lastly this is her look as Echo. Echo is the persona she created when she went Undercover as a Decepticon. (The coloring on this may change as I'm not sure I like it)

[dovedrangeas]

i don’t know why I’m writing this. but there’s something on my mind that’s making me ache.

i don’t know how to cope with the fact that i no longer have a spark for snow au. i don’t know how to handle it. it was so deeply intertwined with who i was and all my thoughts and emotions, but now… i don’t feel any of that anymore. it’s not that i don’t like it anymore, or that i’m not proud of the work i did, it just feels… oddly distant.

maybe it’s because snow au as a concept and a project is so inherently connected to a specific part of my life, a part that i’m just no longer in. It’s connected to a hope and experience that i just. Don’t have anymore. i’ve gotten sicker, i had to move back in with my parents, i’ve recovered from some of the grief that motivated me. and i just have no desire to keep working on it, because i feel like i failed that part of my life anyway, so now the project that i was so proud of is just a reminder that i fucked it all up and i’m back to square one.

and like, it’s not that deep, right? at the end of the day, it’s a stupid dramatic fanfic about block game roleplay and magic and angst. it’s not that important. but it was so important to me for so long, and no longer having that drive is just. it feels wrong.

and i’m still writing dsmp fic! I still enjoy doing it! it’s still one of my biggest interests! but snow au no longer holds that importance and i don’t know to cope with the fact that i might never work on it again and i feel so empty inside about it.

it's been almost 4 years. and i don't know what i'm supposed to do.

[bi-writes]

attached | ghost x f!reader

i have no idea what it is that binds us together. but it doesn't really matter.

type: one-shot (8.4k)

cw: zombie apocalypse au, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!ghost, dark!reader, reader described as curvy/plus-sized + has hair long enough to braid, graphic depictions of violence + murder + gore, depictions of suicidal thoughts + intentions (no actual action), mentions of depression + sadness + loneliness, depictions of assault + harassment (not by ghost), horror movie vibes, unprotected piv, allusions to baby trapping, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving), 18+

Death can be a curious thing. It used to be something definitive. Exact. It used to mean the end of something.

No, now it's a beginning. Not a sweet beginning, but a beginning nonetheless. It turns a new tide. Reactivates cells that were once dead. Sparks nerves that used to be dormant, that used to be dark. It makes muscles move even when they aren't supposed to. Brain-dead, but still hungry.

He hasn't been able to understand the phenomenon quite yet. He's tried. He's picked up a few books and tried to do his own research, but it's difficult when there is no way for him to view the cellular structure of it all on a micro-level. He cannot see the way it grows or how it takes over. He hasn't been able to figure out what techniques it uses to keep a body awake even when the central organs no longer function the way they're supposed to. What keeps it moving? What keeps the feet running and the stomach hungry and the saliva warm?

Why is it that when he plunges his blade through its heart, it still kicks? The brain is its engine, as with his own body, but this is different. The brain runs even when it has lost its necessary components. Blood circulation, oxygen, the things it needs to thrive; but this state of being is not like his own. It doesn't need the same things it used to need because its purpose is not to keep a body running. Its purpose is to eat. To infect. And that is all.

He likes to play games these days. He has a lucky silver euro, one he pried off the dead body of someone that he hated. He spit on that body before raiding his pockets. He hated that fucking brute; he disgraced the style of wearing a mask by using a fucking t-shirt instead. Perhaps Austria is a beautiful country, but it certainly produced one of the most unlikable of men. He thinks even if the world was still right-side up, he would've killed him anyway. The only thing useful about him was that he was carrying a few extra magazines and this coin in his front pocket.

Every morning, when he wakes up, he makes whatever will happen that day a game. If the coin lands on heads, he gets to kill himself today. If it lands on tails, he has to endure 24 more hours before he can play again. The rules are simple. The game is easy. Everyone knows how to play it, but not everyone will like to win it.

Today, he decides to do something different. Today, he decides if he wins, he will wait another day. He has never won this game; he decides if he can't win it, he'll manipulate it until he gets what he wants.

It hits the table with a light clink. It rattles around in a few circles before settling, and when he leans back in his chair, he sighs. He knows what it will be even without looking, but he looks anyway. When he sees the carved outline of its face-side up, his eyes flash. He won.

He never wins.

Something is keeping him here. He chooses not to ask questions. There isn't anyone to ask anyways. No one answers when he speaks. He doesn't think there is anyone left to listen.

If someone would ask him why he doesn't just put the muzzle to his temple and pull the trigger, he would just say that it was because that was how the game is played. Those are the rules. He can't try unless that's what it tells him to do. There is no fun in cheating the game; it wouldn't be proper, it wouldn't be correct. It would be grounds for disqualification, and that just wouldn't do, not for him.

He has to do things the right way. Always. It's how you keep order in a world that has none left. It's how you maintain structure even without the lines drawn in the sand. This is the way things are done; God is not waiting at the end of a very long staircase, He is rattling that coin on the table and waiting for Ghost to take a peek.

He thinks it keeps landing on tails because perhaps God is tired of playing this game with him; Ghost has never been surprised. He will always be ready for disappointment. Giving a gift is no fun when the recipient simply receives it.

It landed on heads today. He won the game. He tried to play it differently, but someone won't let him.

There's snow on the ground this morning. It snowed all night, coating the ground in a few inches of powdery ice. He looks away from the window and back towards the mirror, continue to run the razor over his head. His blonde hair falls in clumps in the sink. He keeps it neat and short, close to the head, and then he does the same with his face. He cuts the stubble close, keeping his face clean, but it doesn't wipe away the rest of his face, the things he can't just cut away. The scars, the ridges, the skin that closed over wounds angry and white and uneven. He can see his teeth through the broken skin above his lip, the yellowing of them now that he only brushes them a few times a week with his lack of proper toothpaste, and he grimaces when he sees the new red spots of raised skin left behind from the dirty mask he wears now. He dips his toothbrush into his bottle of water before brushing, careful to scrub his gums properly before spitting into the sink.

When he finishes, he makes his way back into the bedroom to get dressed. He did the washing yesterday; he found a creek only half frozen over, and he made use of the bar soap he keeps and managed to clean off most of his clothes. He feels a little better slipping into his cargos now that they aren't drenched in sweat or dirt. He tucks a long-sleeve into his pants before putting a thick windbreaker on over it, but he finally feels complete once he slips his mask on over his face. In the mirror, he adjusts it, making the skull straight, and he blinks back at himself. The mask does more than just hide him from the dead.

It keeps the living walking a careful circle around him, and he wants to keep it that way. He hasn't spoken to a single person since it began. He stopped counting the days once his boots ran out of space for notches. Anyone he sees now, he scares them off with one look, or he puts them down before they can take a step closer to finding out if he's real or not.

He doesn't take chances. He has always had a special skill, being able to sniff out the bullshit before it begins. He leans into it now, and it isn't a bullet wasted if it stops the chaos before it can wind up.

He still wears his tactical gear. He can't part with it. His holsters have not failed him, still buckled around his thighs. His vest is still strapped on, and without it, he feels naked. He has long since discarded of the Union Jack patch on his chest; there is no king nor country anymore. They are colors in different shapes, and they mean nothing now; they were buried a long time ago.

His backpack feels light. He's running out of bullets, and he doesn't like how it feels. Nowadays, he has to go further and further to get what he needs, and recently, he's taken to picking up everything and simply moving to make the trips all the easier with no home to go back to.

It's not all that different to the life he had before. He never stayed in one place too long then either. He signed the shortest leases, and he would move once it was up, never lingering and never buying more things than he could carry in the back of his truck. His memories are in his head and nowhere else. He keeps no trinkets. He saves no pictures. There is nothing from the old life that needs to be brought into the new. He shifts between both lives, one foot in the past and one in the future, and he thinks that's what really makes him live up to his name.

He's a Ghost. A drifter. Standing between two places at the same time, not knowing which to stay in and which to leave. It would hurt, if he was really human inside, if he could feel anything at all.

But he's not. His insides are nothing but organic matter. His head is a clock, ticking, counting down, but he's not aware of when it runs out.

He digs the heel of his boot into the snow to gauge the depth. It barely comes up over his toes. He huffs a little before taking a peek at the map tucked into his vest. He had circled a place just north, a main street he is hoping will have a stash of things he will need.

Ammunition. Weapons. Food. Water. A new book, for fuck's sake, maybe a Sudoku puzzle that isn't already scribbled into.

The forest gives him cover, so he sticks to it. Out in the open, he would stick out, dressed in all black. He keeps to the trees, ducking under the leaves and trying not to leave too much of a track behind. He doesn't plan on staying in that cabin again, but if he must, he doesn't want anyone seeing a way to come back to it.

The one thing he does appreciate about this new place is the quiet. It lingers, and it's calm, and when he breathes, the world breathes back. He feels like he had always been telling everyone to shut up, but now, his voice hasn't been used in months. Even when he passes other people, he doesn't speak to them. If they don't spot him, he keeps to the shadows, and if they do, they don't see him for long enough to know what hit them.

It's a good stash. The store had been rifled through by now, but in the office, there had been a nice drawer filled with supplies. A few boxes of ammunition, a revolver, and a new blade to stick in one of his boots. He picks up some other odds and ends. Batteries. A roll of yarn. A small sewing kit. A few pens. His backpack feels a little heavier, and it's a weight he appreciates when he makes his way back outside.

He sticks to the alleyways as he searches for the roof over his head for the night. He decides the cabin he slept in last night was too close to the road; if anyone was driving or following it, they could find that place too easily, and he wouldn't be able to sleep another night comfortably there knowing this truth.

He finds himself veering off road just enough. It's fucking cold, freezing, and he's grateful to the mask for helping him keep it together as he ducks under the wind and keeps an eye out for any nearby landmarks. Sometimes, on slow days like this, he would sit on a ridge and kill infected for sport. Practice focusing his sight, calculating the wind, keep his mind in check by hitting his targets and ridding the world of another one of those things.

There are different kinds of hunters out today.

He hears them before he sees them. He knows what kind they are when he hears their laughter. Low and untamed, sloppy and fucking messy. They always are. These kind spoil their treasures. They eat their food until it makes them sick, and then they do it all over again. They never learn their lesson.

When he settles his rifle down along a fallen tree, he eyes them through his scope. There are two of them. Both are fattened, with dark hair and lazy eyes, and they look greasy. Their clothes are in ruins, and their packs are light, and Ghost figures that they look enough alike to be perhaps brothers, or maybe cousins. Their smiles are equally as sadistic. The taller one tugs something along, and when Ghost aims the scope down a little, he sees her.

Her.

He's dragging her by her legs. She's kicking, but it's hard for her to do much when her arms and legs are bound by mismatched bits of fabric and rope. She's crying, that much is clear, squirming as she spits and gargles around the gag in her mouth as she tries to break free. She has heart, but she isn’t a fighter. If she was, she would’ve realized her teeth could snap that fabric of her gag, and she would know that the knot they’ve tied succumbs easily to upwards pressure.

He follows them. They keep going, dragging you and laughing as they make it to a makeshift camp hidden amongst a clearing. There's a few tents set up, a small dip in the earth to hold a campfire, and when they settle on tree trunks to sit, the smaller one takes a blade and cuts your gag off, leaning over you with a low chuckle. They mean to maim and to take and then to kill, and you know this when you look into his eyes.

"Hello, darling."

"Bite me."

He laughs again, dropping onto his knees over you, but when he gets close enough, you sit up with what little strength you have and bite him along his ear. The cartilage rips, and you tear half his ear off, and then he's scrambling off of you, screaming, holding the side of his head as he rolls around in circles in the snow. He colors it red, and you snarl with satisfaction. Ghost takes a deep breath in and lets it out shakily. The look in your eyes–he can taste that, roll it around on his tongue. You did not clock the poorly-tied knots, but you do see opportunity, and you are the kind to take it.

"You bitch!"

Just as the taller one is about to get on top of you, Ghost decides he's seen enough. He closes one eye, lines up the sight, and he lets out a cool breath as he drops the both of them within a second of each other. They fall easy; a bullet clean through the back of their heads, and now they're finally quiet again. They will not get up, either.

Your lip trembles as you look towards the trees. You watch as the leaves rustle, and when you see a man emerge from the thick of them, you start to cry. You think maybe you're seeing things; you must be so dehydrated, so hungry, that a reaper has come for you, and you are much deader than you thought.

The reaper stares down at you curiously. He swings his rifle over his shoulder, tilting his head to the side as he bends, getting a blade out of his boot before he cuts the restraints that bind you. He doesn’t hesitate when he does this; he does not deem you enough of a threat to keep you bound.

You sit up slowly, wiping your face, and when you meet his eyes, you're surprised to see how human they are. They're dark, but alive, and he has blonde lashes and pale skin underneath. He covers himself, but you can still see him. There's a man under there, not a reaper.

Just a man.

I hate men.

You shake off the rest of the restraints, turning your wrists and ankles and flexing your muscles for good measure. When you realize you are nothing but a little shaken up, you look back up. He's still staring at you, hard eyes lowered in a glare as he looks you over. He's sizing you up, maybe, deciding what to do with you. You meet his eyes one more time before gathering the saliva into your mouth and spitting onto the floor. It's a garbled mess of blood, from the flesh you had severed from that man.

He blinks slowly at that, makes some decision that he doesn’t voice out loud, and then he starts to walk away.

You stand on shaky legs, taking it as your cue. You watch as he rips open the flimsy tents that those men had left behind, and he's already grabbing backpacks and rifling through them for goods. He already starts filling his own vest and backpack with the things he finds; some flashlights, fishing line, more food and ammunition. You follow him, moving to the other tent beside it and starting to grab their things and toss them outside. You get to your knees and open the packs, laying out what you find carefully. They have interesting materials in here, ones you associate with explosives. C4. Lighters. Batteries. Wiring. You clench your jaw when you pull out the last box in the bag.

Condoms.

Bunch of pricks.

He finds your discoveries useful. He opens up an empty pack he found and fills it to the brim with supplies. When he zips it up, your stomach drops when you think he might toss it over his shoulder and leave. It only sinks for a moment before he turns the backpack around, holding it up for you.

You pause for a little and think. It only takes a few seconds for you to decide to stand up and slip your arms through the straps.

When he walks again, you follow.

The sun is setting by the time you find somewhere to sleep, but it looks like luxury to you. A quaint little brick house tucked between the hills, a ways from the road and positively hidden. He spotted it through his scope a few hours ago, and he made a beeline for it. It's difficult to keep up with him; he has incredible stamina and the longest legs. He moves like a ghost, too quiet for his own good. You would never know from looking at him how stealthy he could be. For such a huge man, you would never notice him before he could get the drop on you. It makes you conscious of your own steps and how loud they are, and you try to mimic the way he moves as you keep walking.

You don't know why, but you think he must be very pleased with how quiet you've gotten. You don't know why that fact pleases you, too.

He makes you stay outside when you arrive. He pulls a small handgun out of his backpack, and he checks the chamber before handing it to you. He clicks his tongue, forcing your eyes on his, and he puts a finger to his mask-covered lips, telling you to keep quiet. You take the gun from him, pointing it at the ground and holding it at your side, and he touches a knuckle under your chin before he twists a silencer onto his own gun.

You watch with rapt attention as he clears the house. His movements are quick and calculated, and he keeps low to the ground. It's mesmerizing. Big and capable, one with the shadows. The only thing you see in the dark is the white of the skull over his face, and if you didn't know it was him, you would think that you have just seen God.

But God isn't real. Apparently ghosts are.

He is back outside in less than ten minutes, nodding his head at you. You take it as your cue to come towards him, and you hand him the gun back when you pass him. You go into the house and immediately start to light some of the candles scattered around. You set your backpack down, rubbing your shoulders out, and you take a seat on the couch.

It hits you then, the gravity of it all. Men are your captors, and then they are your savior. They'll never leave you alone. They'll never let you go. You were ruled by their iron fist in a previous life, and you will endure their wrath in this new one.

You start to cry. It's the first sound you've made since screaming. You cover your face with your hands, and you don't know why you feel safe enough to cry, but you do, and it comes out of you fast.

He tilts his head to the side as he watches you. It's a strange thing to see something so...alive. He's used to only seeing things moving that can't speak back to him. If he does see things alive, he puts them down as if they are rabid dogs.

He can't find it in himself to kill you. Something is so odd about it. About you.

Everything about today seems more than coincidence. He won the game today. And then he found you.

When he tries the sink in the bathroom, he's surprised to find it working. He grabs a bowl and fills it with water, and when he comes back into the living room, you are staring at one of the flickering candles blankly, shivering. You have stopped crying, but your face is still wet with fat, lingering tears.

It looks like you've been hit by a brick wall. Your hair is matted in places, in tangles. It’s in desperate need of a cut. It's stuck to your face around the perimeter, caked by sweat and mud and dried blood. Your clothes are in ruins; you wear a ripped jumper, thin jeans, and the soles of your boots are starting to fray and come off, and he can see where you've tried to mend them unsuccessfully with duct tape. You wear no jewelry, and your fingernails need to be cut. Those men have left marks on you, but those will fade.

He kneels in front of where you sit on the couch. Using a threadbare cloth, he dips it into the water and raises it to your face. You show no resistance. You let him wipe your face off, the tears, the dirt, the blood. It stains the cloth ugly, but you can't look at anything else except for his eyes.

They're so dark. Brown, like bark, like honey. You haven't spoken a word to him yet, but the silence is sort of bliss. All you can hear is the drip of the water when he rings out the cloth.

He helped you. He didn't have to. He could've kept walking, but he stayed with you. He didn't leave you. He could've walked away again, but he let you follow.

He isn't a good man. You know that. Anyone who has lasted this long isn't a good person. You've done the same. You've let it take you, once or twice, let the snarl in the back of your throat guide your hand. You've let the voices fester, let them eat at the acid in your stomach until they begged for more, and you won't admit it, but it felt good. Felt good to protect yourself. To rid the earth of something terrible. To say no.

He must understand that. He's decorated in its essence, the one of understanding, the one that says I know what it's like to take matters into your own hands, and he did it with you, too.

He's doing it now, cleaning you up, and you don't know him, or his face, or his name, but you'll try hard to give it back. To give him something. To tell him you are worthy and not useless. It doesn't show today, how far you've come, but you'll try.

"Thank you," you finally whisper. He's dragging the cloth over your bottom lip, and he blinks rapidly, as if a bit startled by hearing your voice. When you speak again, it's to tell him your name, and he thinks for a few moments before continuing, wiping under your jaw.

He doesn't sleep that night. He stares out the window, like a guard dog, and he lets the soft breaths of your sleep keep him awake.

The gas lighter on the stove still works. It takes a match to light it properly, but when the fire starts, you take some of the soup cans from your pack and make breakfast.

Your smile when he comes into the kitchen nearly blinds him. You look more rested than yesterday, and you ladle some soup into a bowl for him, setting it down at the table. He notices the two bowls, his and yours, and he notices that his bowl has more food.

It is then that he decides to keep you.

What he doesn't know is that you've decided the same. The world has thrown you the way out. A man, built like a bear, happy finger on the trigger and capable of getting you out of harm's way. You need to convince him that you are worthy. You need to convince him that you are valuable. A keepsake.

Men are what start wars, not what end them. Men are the cause of chaos and destruction, it is prevalent throughout history, and it is why you are here now, in a place that doesn’t exist, where people don’t breathe the same air anymore. A man thought himself correct, but he was wrong, and he didn’t listen when someone told him otherwise. They are the ones that take advantage of your vulnerability, and instead of trying to understand it, they use it to get what they want.

You can do the same.

You start by mending his clothes. He's laid some out to dry after washing, and you notice the tears in his shirts. When he comes back a little while later, with dinner hanging off his shoulder, you are seated on the couch, feet tucked under you, with a needle in your hand as you sew up one of his shirts.

You've bathed, found new clothes, warmer ones, and your hair is braided and off your face. He hates to say he prefers you a little dirty, but he likes this, too. A natural beauty. A soft face.

You make a real dinner that night. There's canned vegetables that you try to spruce up with the spices you find in the cupboards, but the real meal is the venison you're served. He butchers it outside like a professional, and he sears it on the stove with a perfect touch. When he feeds you that first bite, your mouth explodes with flavor. Your belly is full that evening, and when he blows out the candles for bed, he eats you out in the dark of the corner bedroom.

He's not sloppy like you thought he might be. Not overeager. He's easy with it, casual. Big hunk of a man smothered between your thighs, and he laves his tongue through your folds like his very own personal dessert. He drinks straight from the source, holy water spilling sweet between his teeth, and when he gets his tongue inside of you and holds it there, you nearly leave earth for somewhere else. You come like that, too, his filthy mouth sucking on your clit before he's slipping that tongue in you again, and you mewl against the bed as he tucks his hand under your ass and spreads you wider.

He tells you his name a few nights later. He doesn't speak, not ever, but when you're crying around his thick fingers, he whispers it against your ear.

"'s Simon," he growls, and you know what he means by that. He wants you to say it while you bounce on his fingers, when you rut against his thigh. He wants you to say his name when you're coming undone riding his face, when you're wetting his mask with your pussy and making him choke on your cum. Such a wet, sweet girl you are, and sometimes he skips wash day for his mask so he can shove it into his mouth and pant around it and taste you while he fucks his own fist.

It's insanity, he thinks, as he's cleaning his rifle. The idea of traditional. But it's what befallen him, what he sees all around him, and he tucks his index finger into a hole too small to pinch himself just to make sure he isn't living a dream. You're in the kitchen, mending more clothes, something warm boiling on the stove. There were seeds in the greenhouse, and you're saving them to plant in the spring, so for now, you make do with canned goods and whatever Simon hunts for during the day. You found books in the attic, and you read them at night, head in Simon's lap as he plays with your hair or rubs your sore ankles or cuts your nails. You're the only one that ever speaks; he hasn't said a word to you except for telling you his name, and you're content to be the only one that uses their voice.

He always listens. You told him one time that you loved the shade of green that the trees wore, and he came back one day with a sweatshirt of the same color for you. He noticed you trying to mend those terrible boots, and he found a new pair for you, your size this time, barely worn and fit for winter. He brings lots of things for you; books, clothes, even rocks sometimes, when he just thinks he found one that you might like.

You do like them. You have started filling a small bowl with the ones he brings, and he notices you rifling through it sometimes, just looking at them, and it makes his chest swell with pride.

Like giving a treat to a dog. Like giving him a fucking bone.

He teaches you how to shoot. You know how to pull a trigger, but that’s the extent of your expertise. He teaches you how to stand, how to turn the safety on and off, how to hold the gun between two hands so not even his own can take it away from you. He makes sounds when you please him. Hums low, lets out a soft breath, sucks in the air through his teeth. You can’t see his face, but the way he looks at you when you fire a bullet and knock bottles off their ledges, it warms you, all the way down your spine, reaching your toes. You want him to keep looking at you this way, so you try hard, and he notices.

You’ll never be what he is, but the small victories are what have him chubbing up in his cargos and falling asleep between your thighs. You give, and he takes, and he keeps coming back for more.

He teaches you that distance is your strength. You aren’t like him; you aren’t built like a brick house, you won’t be bigger than a lot of your opponents. You need to keep them away from you, however you can. He makes you good with that gun because it’s your best chance, but in the even that you lose it or you run out of bullets, he shows you how to aim a hatchet so that the blade always lines up between someone’s shoulders.

The way you listen makes him salivate. The way you blink up at him and say yes, Simon and take his orders, it makes it difficult to keep away from you. 

Today marks two months in the house tucked on the hill. Simon hunts, and you cook, and you live in some sick, twisted housewife fantasy at the end of the fucking world. Simon provides, and you keep, and when the box of condoms falls out of your backpack one day, you glance at Simon for just a moment before he's on you.

It's animal, that first time. He tackles you practically onto the carpet of the living room, and he props you up onto your elbows and only pulls down your jeans enough that he can fit his cock between your thighs. You hear the tear of the condom wrapping, and then he's laying over your back, sinking to the base, cock nestled inside of you as he grips your throat gently and fucks you into the carpet. Poor beast, he's definitely going to need his knees massaged after this, but you can't think about that much when you're taking the fattest cock of your entire life and trying to survive underneath him. It's that fine line between pleasure and pain that you're desperate for, and you pull threads out of the carpet as you try to hang on and take it like a good girl.

You can hear his voice. It's low, and subtle, but he grunts with each agonizing thrust, hips snapping against your ass as he fucks you back onto him over and over and over again.

It's primal. Nasty. You wish he wasn't wearing a condom, you want him to be in your skin, you want him to fill you until you're full, let it spill over, and then do it all over again. You want him to bite into your throat and tear, and you want him to eat you and then put you back together, and then do it again and again and again.

"So big," you gasp, and he falters at that. You recognize it, the need for praise, and you latch onto it with claws and stay there. I need him to stay here with me. "So good...so good t-to me, Simon–"

He groans. It's music.

Keep me. Keep me. Keep me.

"Simon, please–" You scratch at his arm, not satisfied until you feel blood. When you break the skin, he laughs, a breathless laugh that has your eyes rolling back in your head as he shoves your face into the carpet and mounts you like a fucking horse. The deep slap, slap, slap of skin is enough to send you away, send you home, your mind foggy as your pussy squeezes him for all he's worth. The slick of the condom is pleasant, but you want it raw. You want every part of him carved into you, and you arch your back, suck him in, whine and cry and beg for him to just, "please, Simon, I need it, I need it."

"Need wot?"

The sound of his voice is whiplash. He hisses when he sinks deep, staying there, holding you at a sharp angle so he can knead your ass and watch it bounce back on him. He sucks on his teeth, and there's drool slipping out of your mouth. That accent, his voice, like velvet, from deep within his chest. You want to hear more of it.

"Be a man," you gasp. "Be a man, and fuck me."

He doesn't see the desperate look on your face when he slips out of you. He doesn't see the relief that washes over you when you hear the condom come off, latex crumbling as he tosses it, but he feels the warmth of your pretty pussy when he sinks back in, skin to skin, and feels you clench for dear fucking life.

"Fuckin' Christ," Simon groans, and you reach back for him, gripping his arms, forcing him to fall over on top of you. He settles with his elbows on either side of your head, and you bow your back and grip the carpet again as he fucks into you nice and slow, deep, fat head leaking precum and making you cry because finally, yes, please, this is it, what I want, I'll have you forever.

You're so pretty. Even in his past life, Simon never got to have anything pretty. He was too ugly, too big, too awkward. Any woman of good faith stayed 100 yards away, as if his mere presence was a warning alarm, some invisible radius that kept them away from him. He always thought it was for the better. He always thought good riddance, they shouldn't have me, I shouldn't have anyone. Not when only days before, he had tortured a Russian militant until he had no teeth and hung his severed fingers on twine around his own neck.

But you won't run away. He's given you opportunity. He's left the cottage and staked out the outside just to watch you, and all he sees is you moving between windows, shaking out the dust from old blankets and washing the dishes. All he sees is you sewing his clothes and cooking his food, and when he comes back inside, all he sees is your smile and your face and your pretty mouth that falls open when he makes you come all over his hand.

Now it's the end of the world, and he lets a coin flip decide whether or not he lives or dies. And even when he flips it now, it never agrees. When he asks to die, the coin tells him no. When he asks to live, it’s always interrupted by you.

Yes, it tells him. Yes, yes, yes, because it's been keeping him here, because it knows, because it saw, because he couldn't see both sides of the coin, but he can see it now, plain as day, and she's underneath him now, letting him inside, and she's begging him to come and to fill her up, and she's crying because he's such a big man, and she wants him everywhere and always and all at once, and Simon is nothing if he isn't an insatiable bastard that can finally be fucking selfish.

The way you say his name could make him move mountains. That soft breath you take. The falter of your voice. The whine. The world has gone quiet, but he'll make a new one, and he will leave it at your feet for you to step on or pick up.

Whichever you choose. You can do no wrong.

When he comes, he moans. Into your ear, he lets you hear him, lets you bask in his pleasure as he spurts hot inside of you, hauling you a little higher on your knees so he can make sure you come, too. He gives you the palm of his hand to grind on, fucking into you at the same time, humming deep when he feels you squeeze around him and shatter like glass.

He takes his mask off for the first time that night. You see his face, all of it, not just glimpses when he lifts it to eat or to drink, you see the whole thing. He has a terrible looking face. Something only a mother could love. Too old of scars to be from this new life. They slash across his brow, across his cheeks. He has a jagged nose, and the skin around his lips had been reconstructed poorly from however they had been slit.

He's a terrifying piece of flesh. He is surprised when you lean in and kiss him. He's even more surprised when you kick off your jeans, turn over, and fuck him again.

The mantra that sounds like mine repeats in his head over and over. He feels it, deep, warm and beating under his ribs alongside his heart that hasn't moved in a long while.

He found you in those woods, kicking amongst predators, and he took you home with him. Picked you up like a stray, fed you, clothed you, and now you've stayed. For a moment, he thought it wasn't real. Thought your full belly is what kept you here, the warm house. He didn't mind pretending, but he figured it wouldn't last.

He doesn't think that anymore. Not with the way you kiss his severed face. You nuzzle into it, cup his cheeks, and he finds it agony when you pull away.

He hovers now. In whatever room you are in, Simon must also be in it. If he leaves, he makes you board the doors, and you are only allowed to open them if he knocks in his special way. He tested you once, came back earlier than expected, and he was so pleased you did not open the door to his casual knock and only the special one that he made you come one, two, three times with your thighs locked around his face.

A terrible thing happens.

Not to you.

You're searching the greenhouse. Hoping to find some flower pots for the herb seeds you found, you're rummaging through the cabinets beside it. Your gun is sitting away from you, and although Simon would chastise you for this, you feel safe here, and it doesn't bother you.

It flings itself at you. It cries, what used to be a teenage girl, reaching for you because it wants a chunk of your softness, of the life you pump into the muscles that keep you running. You're protected by all the clothes you wear for the weather, and it is slow because of the cold freezing their rigid, dead bones, but it does not lessen the hunger, the fight, the determination to eat and spread.

Before it can bite, the back of its head explodes. You close your mouth and shut your eyes as rancid brain matter splatters the white snow and you, and it is wrenched off of you immediately. Simon stands there, his pistol in hand, and you have never seen him quite so angry as he is right now.

His eyes are wild. He heaves under that tact vest, breathing hard, and his grip on the handgun shakes, so much that he has to shove it back into the holster at his thigh and lean over to pick you up off the ground.

He jostles you. Growls. Is nearly an animal himself as he shoves you up against the glass of the greenhouse and snarls.

"Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?!" Simon snaps. "Is y'r fuckin' head on?!"

It's so quiet in your head even as he yells. Your eyes tear, but not because you're upset. You reach out and cup his face gently, and he stops. Stops talking, just watches, just looks at you as he bends and leans his forehead against yours and squeezes you to his chest.

What is this thing you have? What have you become? What innate thing has festered between you? He’s gripping the edge of the glass so hard, you hear it crack under his hand. There is some kind of sick sense of devotion among you. Some kind of responsibility. He’s angry because something under his tongue tasted bitter when he saw you struggling. It won’t be this easy. He won’t make it this easy. If he doesn’t get to die, then neither do you, and he will make sure of that, because that is the only way this game can remain fair.

You never wander to the greenhouse again. He makes you promise (lest he wastes his cum between your thighs instead of inside you, that's it, promise me).

Another terrible thing happens.

Not to you.

They're wanderers. When they knock at the door, they don't use Simon's special knock, so you don't open it. Instead, you blow out the candles and hide, peeking at them from the fogged window in the attic.

They are men (you aren't surprised, they seem to be the only thing that survives nature's heavy hand). Cold. Shivering. One of them is bleeding, you can see it from the blood trail he leaves in the snow that seeps from somewhere under the hem of his jeans. The one uninjured tries to force his way through the door, but Simon added more deadbolts to it, and it doesn't give under his weak attempts. You trade your handgun for the rifle, aiming it at them. If they get through the door, maybe you can draw them back out, keep them away from the house.

You try to stay quiet, but the healthier one uses his body and a log of wood to get through. They're desperate, desperate enough to not care that breaking through the door cuts him severely, splits through his jacket. The second man limps behind him, getting inside, and you decide to put the rifle back.

You will stay quiet until Simon gets back. Your strength is not being a bulldozer, so you'll hide until he can be that for you. You steady your breathing; even if they make it to the attic, you won't go quietly. You tried that last time, and if it wasn't for Simon, you'd surely be naked and dead in that clearing that you were dragged to.

This time, if you go, you will take someone with you at least. Severed ears are not enough. You will not make them artists, you will make them forgettable and unrecognizable, and you will give back what they give you tenfold. Even if it kills you.

It takes them all night before they finally make it to the attic. They eat your food and take showers in your bathroom and stink up the living room, you can hear them. And when their bellies are full and their minds wander, you dread the pull of the attic door as he wrenches it open and the ladder falls.

You manage to kill one as he drags you out from the corner. He latches onto your ankle, and as he pulls, you put your finger on the trigger of your handgun, and you put one right between his eyes. The other takes advantage of your moment of pause, turning you over onto your stomach so hard the gun flies across the attic from your hand. He tosses you down from the attic, and you land on your side in the hallway, and you cry as you get to your elbows and crawl, trying to get to your feet, but he's larger than you.

He catches you in the kitchen. Slams you over the kitchen counter, using his weight to pin you down, but Simon taught you better than that. He taught you not to give in. He taught you not to give up. You think about him when your fingers find the discarded fork on the counter and you drive it right through his fucking eye.

You don't stop. You don't let his cries keep you from bringing your arm down again. And again. And again. You make his face your blank canvas, and you paint it with your anger. For every man that ever touched you. For every man that ever thought himself worthy to have you. For every man that tried to make your body his prize, you poke a thousand holes in him, and you scream with him as you do it until he can't scream anymore.

You're holding the fork and standing over him when Simon comes home. His handgun drawn, silent as he makes his way in, his body visibly relaxing when he sees you. He glances at the man at your feet, still alive, gurgling there, choking on his own blood as he tries to breathe through the holes that are scattered across his face and neck. You meet his eyes, and you smile. It's uncanny to do it now, but you are happy to see him.

"There's..." You sniffle, wiping your face with your sleeve. "There's another i-in the attic."

You don’t get to see him smile under the mask. You don’t hear the near purr that leaves him as he climbs the ladder and sees the perfect place you’ve left your mark. He’d frame it if it wouldn’t rot.

You twirl the fork in your hand before going to the sink, dropping it in there, and you close your eyes as you listen to Simon's footsteps as he goes into the attic. It takes him a little less than an hour to get the bodies out the back door, and when he comes back inside, you're already wiping up the floor in the kitchen.

There's nothing to talk about. This is normal. This is just another day. Tomorrow, you might have to do it again, and you'll still cook dinner after sunset and clean the kitchen like you're doing now and sit Simon on the edge of the bathtub and cut his hair.

Simon found chocolate on his trip today, and you make cake with it. You sit in his lap under the candlelight, and you feed each other, bite by bite, and you giggle when Simon gets it all over his lips.

You kiss him to clean it off, and then you reach for another bite of cake. There's some measure of satisfaction you feel when your tongue finds the dent in the fork prongs from when you used it earlier. The chocolate tastes better somehow. Sweeter.

You catch him in the morning, limbs tangled with yours under the sheets, flipping a coin. You smooth a hand over his thick chest, along his pudgy stomach, and you watch with him as the coin lands on the bedside table, falling flat.

It comes up tails.

He decides then that he doesn't have to flip it anymore. It's pointless. He asked for answers, and he got one.

You were not luck. You were fate. And because of it, the coin will always land the same way.

His thoughts are interrupted when you reach for the coin. You twirl it between your fingers, thinking. He doesn't see what you see, but that's okay. Maybe he'll let you play now. Some other game, a better one.

Heads or tails, win or lose, alive or dead. Either way, you are attached. Woven together, thread by thread. There are no vows to say in this new place, but you aren't tested by the same kinds of things. There is no law to keep two people together, no governing power of men that say if left is truly left and that right is really right.

You are drawn together by shared experiences. The same trauma. You won't leave each other not because you said you wouldn't leave, but because there is no one else in the world that has seen the same things you have seen and has done the same things you have done. There is no one else in the world that will forgive you for what you had to do to survive. That will love you not just in spite of it, but because of it, because you did what was necessary, and you are here now to learn a lesson and not suffer its consequences.

It's just a game. If you win, he wins. If you lose, he loses. If you're alive, he's alive.

And if you're dead, then he must be, too.

[sahkuna]

TO YOU SOMEDAY — GOJO SATORU

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

synopsis: time makes the heart grow fonder... you think. from your early childhood years to navigating life as adults, there are key moments that gojo satoru holds near and dear. there are so many things he wants and hopes to say to you, someday. but for now, the memories and things he keeps will suffice.

series content warning(s): afab reader, 18+ so mdni, modern au/canon divergence, childhood friends, frienemies to lovers, slow-ish burn, flashback(s) used a lil to drive plot, fluff & domestic fluff, pining, small angst if you squint sorry, eventual smut/smut → resolved sexual tension, #MMC BEING SO IN 🤍 WITH FMC IT'S PATHETIC (WE ALL CHEERED).

word count: 3k :3 | series masterlist

THEN

You’re about eight years old on the wet, gloomy April morning you first met him. 

His arrival was unexpected, especially considering he entered the school year about two weeks after it had started. 

“Everyone,” your third-grade teacher, Ms. Ayase, stood at the front of the classroom with her hands clasped together. Beside her was a child, a boy, no taller than the middle half of her torso. “Today we have a new student joining our class!”

This news sparked excited whispers and chatter that floated through the rows of desks and chairs in the room. You sat a little taller in your seat, your eyes zeroed in on the new kid who stood motionless beside your teacher. 

Ms. Ayase thumped her palm loudly against the chalkboard— twice, then three times— to regain her class’s attention. Pleased once everyone had fallen silent, she opened her mouth to speak again. “I’d like you all to meet Gojo. Gojo Satoru.”

Young, curious eyes around the room took turns peeking at their new classmate with prolonged stares. Sharp blue eyes matched their curiosity with an uninterested gaze. His little fists jammed tight into his pockets as he stared straight toward the back of the room as if he’d rather be elsewhere.

“I trust that you all will make him feel welcome today and going forward,” Ms. Ayase continued. 

You’d seen most kids cry and buckle under the sudden weight of attention thrown onto them while being introduced to 20-something pairs of eyes staring right back at them. In contrast, other kids basked in the spotlight with glee, quick to spew fun facts about themselves or whatever cool interests they were dying to share with the class.

But this kid? Gojo? 

He didn’t even crack the smallest of smiles. Not even when your fellow classmate and friend, Momo, waved a cheerful hand at him.

For a split second, large, bright blue eyes landed on you and settled there for a fleeting moment before he shifted his attention away.

The harsh, bright light from the class’s luminescent bulbs glinted against the rims of Ms. Ayase’s red rectangular glasses when she glanced down at her new student. “We’re having one of our custodians bring you a new desk, Gojo. So for the time being I’ll have you sit tight right next to…”

Your teacher’s warm brown eyes scanned the room of third graders as many enthusiastic arms shot up in the air paired with piercing “Me!”s and “Choose me!”s chorused all around you.

You felt relieved when you saw everyone throwing their hat into the ring to have Gojo Satoru sit beside them because now you wouldn’t have to worry about making small talk, especially with a boy.

Content with the many options Ms. Ayase now had to choose from, you drifted your attention outside the window toward the school campus courtyard. With all the commotion now drowned out, you took the time to ponder about what games you’d play with your friends during the next recess.

Seconds slipped by with you lost in your thoughts, oblivious to how classmates' antics had stopped and the sudden hush that blanketed the classroom. It was so unnatural and it dawned on you that Ms. Ayase must have already made her choice. So, when you snap your focus back to the front of the room, you’re jolted at the fact that everyone is now looking at you. 

It took a moment for reality to sink in that your teacher had called your name until she repeated it, shaking you from your daze. A few more students turned in their seats and cast mixed looks of envy and surprise.

Out of everyone who had raised their hands, of course, she had to have chosen you to be Gojo’s temporary seatmate. Of. Course.

“Huh?” you squawked in bewilderment, taken aback by her impromptu choice. “Me!?” Suddenly nervous under the scrutiny of your classmates, you shrunk into your seat in a weak attempt to lessen the heat of their stares. 

Judging by the looks of it, he doesn’t look all too thrilled about her decision either. As if he were sizing you up, Gojo gives you a jaded once-over before hauling his navy blue backpack from the floor with a quipped, “Sure.”

Fortunately enough for Ms. Ayase, your desk wasn’t far from the front, so it took her only a minute or so to take an extra chair from the corner of her room and drag it aaall the way over to you. 

Once at your desk, she plopped the chair beside you with a resounding thud. She flapped her hand a few times as if to signal you to scooch over and make some room. So, you did. And not far behind her, Gojo walked over to your desk and dropped into the chair next to you, without sparing you a glance.

Great!

You hadn’t even spoken a word to the boy and he was already giving you the cold shoulder. 

Either oblivious to Gojo’s distant nature or blatantly choosing to overlook it, Ms. Ayase—pleased with her seating arrangements—gave you an approving nod before she walked back to the front of the classroom to begin her lesson.

Amid her teaching, you couldn’t help but sneak glances at Gojo inconspicuously. He was an odd case, and you wanted to take a crack at breaking down his stony exterior. You don’t mind being the first to extend an olive branch to kickstart the beginning of a hopefully new friendship.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper so you wouldn’t disturb the flow of other students who tried to learn. First-day jitters get the best of everyone and you had wanted to give this Gojo Satoru kid a chance to at least be acquainted with you before you start to form your own opinions on him. 

You were doing a good thing. You were being a friend, a great one at that. That’s what any new transfer would want on their first day at a new school, right?

Well...

It came as a shock to you that upon hearing your voice, you caught how Gojo’s gaze slowly shifted from his scattered notes and childish cartoon-like sketches to forcefully land on you as if you were doing him a disservice at trying to be friendly.

The kind smile that had graced your lips before his unrelenting stare now turned sour and awkward. 

His expression wasn’t mean, but it certainly wasn’t friendly either. Just… blank. And the more he stared, surveying you, probably looking down on you and your attempts to befriend him, the more annoyed you became.

Yeah, never mind.

What was his damage?!

Never have you ever met a child so strange.

With your lips twisted into a faint sneer and your brows bunched tightly together, you exhaled a vexed hmph at Gojo’s less-than-pleasant attitude and shot your eyes back to Ms. Ayase— who was now scribbling a bunch of numbers and diagrams onto the blackboard. You even shunt your seat a few spaces away from him to show your disfavour.

You simply concluded that getting to know let alone, befriending Gojo Satoru may not be in the cards for you… ever.

Every day you thanked your lucky stars for the handy dandy custodian, Mr. Taro, who had fast-tracked the delivery of your sworn enemy’s (which was one-sided)  desk within the next few days after his arrival.

You no longer had to worry yourself sick every morning on the walk to school about brushing shoulders and sharing textbooks with your classmate, Gojo Satoru. 

That had been a whole five months ago, though, and you now only had a week left of your summer break before your second semester would begin. Since the very first day you met him, you’ve watched Gojo grow into the role of your class’s star student. 

He was everyone’s first choice for P.E. if there were teams for the games you’d play, and he was invited to everyone’s birthday party. Anyone who managed to prompt a conversation that lasted more than a few minutes with Gojo was determined to be one of the lucky ones. It was a known fact that everyone at school wanted to be his friend.

Well… almost everyone.

Tired of swinging on the swings, you launched yourself off the play set and into a pile of woodchips that cushioned the land onto your feet. The sun crept lower on the horizon, painting the sky with warm oranges and blues. You remembered your mom having told you that you were expected to come home before dinner. 

Your buddy, Momo, had walked home from the neighbourhood park long before you, and seeing that you had nothing else to do, you decided to start your short trek home.

“Time to go,” you said to no one in particular. You walked over to your bag that was thrown haphazardly on one of the picnic tables and swung it over to slink your arms through each strap.

Unbeknownst to you, you must’ve forgotten to zip up your backpack completely earlier, prompting most of your bag’s contents to spill across the pavement.

You grunted in aggravation. “Jeez,” you growled to yourself, as you scooped up the scattered pencils and trading cards you had packed into your hands in a crabby fashion. There must’ve been at least 15 of these cards that you needed to gather.

After spending maybe a good two minutes picking up your things and wiping the dirt off them, right as you reached for your last trading card a huge gust of wind accosted you and blew the cards up and into the air. 

“Hey!” you exclaimed in shock. With great dread and an air of urgency, you shoved the rest of your belongings into your bag and chased after your runaway card.

You yelled and hollered down the sidewalks of your quiet neighbourhood thankful for the most part that it was vacant. God forbid if someone you knew from school saw you running and screaming bloody murder over a damn trading card. “Stop!” 

This was the kind of chase scene you’d seen play out in a children’s TV show with the obnoxious laugh track faintly playing in the back. To say you were mortified at your predicament would be an understatement.

The card having a mind of its own took a sharp turn around a corner, and you not far behind followed it. Unfortunately, unaware that there could be another being behind that very corner, your sharp turn wound you to bump into someone’s back. Hard.

You let out an audible oomph right as you tumbled onto the ground. 

Well, there goes one of your most prized possessions. You knew it was a bad idea to bring your high-ranking cards to the park, but nooo, Momo wanted to see them before her family trip to Hakone before school started.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

You groaned and swiped a frustrated hand against your eyes as that nipping, uncomfortable feeling that you just lost your favourite card. 

Do not cry. You scolded yourself, as you pressed your fist harder against your eyes as the familiar heat of tears began to prick at your waterline. Not over a card. Especially in front of a stranger.

Reminded that you had company, you quickly rose to your feet again and dusted yourself off as if nothing had happened. “Sorry,” you said with your head down.

You sidestepped around the person, ready to make your dejected walk home with now 14 cards in tow.

Things couldn’t have gotten any worse is what you thought until you heard the “stranger” behind you make their presence known.

“You like Digimon?”

Oh God. 

When you turned to see your worst-case scenario personified, there in his hand, was your only Skullgreymon Digimon collector’s edition card in all its glory.

You’re half happy— because your card managed to be saved— and half-mortified— because your card managed to be saved by public enemy number one, Gojo Satoru.

Immediately, you decided to skip the formalities and extended your arm to snatch your card away from your hero-turned-villain. But you’re not quick enough.

“You like Digimon?” Gojo repeated, this time with more volume in his voice. The hand that held your dear Skullgreymon swivelled behind his back to keep it far from your range.

This was the most you’ve heard him speak (to you, that is). You tried not to let the wonderment of this event cloud over the fact that Gojo had something that belonged to you and kept you from taking it. 

“Yes,” you grunted and took one step forward in an attempt to grab your card again to no avail. “I do.”

Gojo blinked at you, his snowy white lashes fluttered with thoughtful consideration. When Gojo isn’t giving you blank stares or expressions that practically screamed he was judging you, you think he could be quite nice. You think.

 “Me too,” he finally said.

“... Okay.” you said, because what else are you supposed to say!?

Gauging that Gojo was in no hurry to give you back Skullgreymon anytime soon, your arm fell limp at your side and you huffed in defeat. 

You expected him to follow his confession with something else, but instead, the two of you stood on the side of the sidewalk in silence. This went on far longer than you would have liked for it to have gone. 

Gojo’s blue eyes bore into your soul with a look of expectation that stretched across his features, as he thumbed the back of your sparkly card behind him.

Your gaze diverted away from him and glanced at the slow start of a darkening sky, which was your indicator that you really needed to get home soon. But you’d be damned if you left without Skullgreymon!

Chancing a glimpse back at Gojo, his face is unreadable and serious in all its intensity. His eyebrows you were so used to seeing in straight impassive lines were now creased tight with confusion and… annoyance?

That’s when it struck you that he was waiting for you to say something!

Oh, so now he wanted you to extend the olive branch? Funny! Hilarious, even! 

No shot.

You snorted and answered his unspoken open invitation and question to play with a curt shake of your head, “Give me back my—”

“I don’t have any training lessons with my tutor tomorrow,” Gojo replied, cutting you off. You watched with horror as he tucked your card into the front pocket of his black khakis. He even tucked his hands into them to intercede any chance of you swiping it back from him. “Bring more of your cards here in the afternoon and I’ll show you some of mine.”

Without even bothering to wait for your response, let alone agreement, Gojo Satoru turned on his heel and walked his merry self home.

And that very next day you waited at the park, just like he had ordered you to do, brewed to the brim with indignation that Gojo managed to swindle you into leaving your house to meet/play/whatever it was that he wanted to see you for… with him.

Arms crossed tightly against your chest as you pressed yourself against the swingset beam, you waited for Gojo to make his arrival. Thankfully, you didn’t have to wait long.

“You’re here.” 

Behind you, you spotted Gojo. Today he wore a different set of khakis, all-too-expensive sneakers that were not park material and… a dark blue Digimon tee. Stowed between his arm and side, he carried a black binder, probably decked out with all his Digimon cards.

Just as he had said.

Oh.

There’s a creeping sensation of guilt that bullies your conscience. Maybe you were a tad bit mean yesterday in not being open to meeting up with Gojo because today it seemed like he wanted to make a fair impression on you. 

Maybe today would be the one shot for you guys to get to know each other better.

Noticing your silence that drawled on for too long, you quickly countered with a clipped, “Of course I am!” You nodded your chin at him. “You stole my card!” 

You thought you spotted a ghost of a smile dancing across his lips, but it disappeared as quickly as you must have imagined it.

Gojo flung his binder—you swallowed the urge to tell him to be careful— and sat on the ground.

When you hadn’t immediately followed his lead, Gojo looked up at you incredulously.  “Aren’t you going to sit?”

So, you do. 

You would have been silly to pass up the rare opportunity of talking to Gojo like a normal human being rather than sworn enemies (once again, one-sided on your part).

From that day onward, there was a miraculous shift in the way you interact with your classmates. The shell of the bratty, blunt, and sometimes abrasive nature of Gojo Satoru you once knew him to have was no more.

After summer break when school was back and in session, when Ms. Ayase revealed the new seating chart for the classroom and you discovered you’d only be a desk away from Gojo, you caught the white tuft of his hair whirl to find across the class before he shot you a thumbs up.

But it didn’t stop there. 

No longer did Gojo roll his eyes when you were picked to be on the same team as him during P.E. Instead, if he were captain for one of the games, much to the class’s (and your) surprise, you were almost always chosen first.

He also intruded on the many recess sessions you’d have to play with your friends to urge you to ditch them and start a match of DCG with him. 

This spurred you to learn that Gojo had a grand fixation and bountiful admiration for Digimon— he was (and still) is a class-A nerd when it comes to all things in the Digimon franchise, more so than you.

Things had changed from where it all started in April of 1997. Gojo had changed, and you’d like to say you had to.

Satoru never wound up giving you that card back. But you no longer seemed to care about that, nor his antics. 

Not anymore.

OKAYYYY SHE (me) FINALLY DELIVERED. thank you for reading until the end! if you liked it, please yell at me about it will yell (/pos) right back <333 I HOPE YOU GUYS WILL STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT PARTS OF THIS MINI-SERIES! as it will come soon :) until then DUECES STINKIES!

*EDIT: you know, i think this will be more so a prologue/chapter "0" rather than it being chapter 1...? this is just the bones of this series. nonetheless eeeee, childhood friends to lover trope on TOP. WHO ELSE CHEERED