z0mi3

[z0mi3]

Hi! I'd love to be added to the taglist for Like a Lamb to the Slaughter :) Thanks!

no problem !! I gotchu!!!

[z0mi3]

I ain't a wimp when I get writers block I STRESS ABOUT IT FOR A WEEK STRAIGHT, and not to ChatGPT like a coward. I face writers block like a man, laying in bed hours crying.

[z0mi3]

Can I please be added to the lamb to the slaughter taglist if you have time?

hi, hi, hi, so sorry for the late response! ofc you can!!

[z0mi3]

Plleeeease get me on the tag list for Lamb to the Slaughter I'm so invested already!!!!

ofccc!!! I’ll make a post soon with the taglist too make sure I got all of y’all!!

[z0mi3]

I will make sure that everyone that asks to be in the taglist will be on it donut worry!!! ^^

[z0mi3]

happy 4th of july ! :’)

[z0mi3]

Like a Lamb to the Slaughter

Chapter One —The Offering

>-;;⁠;⁠;€ᐷ parings: Barbarian!tf141 x civilized reader

>-;;⁠;⁠;€ᐷ synopsis: On the day meant to mark your passage into womanhood, something feels wrong. The smiles are forced, the ceremony hollow, until you're taken beyond the village, hooded, and left in the hands of those once called monsters.

>-;;⁠;⁠;€ᐷ contents: Barbarian AU, price is the bear, ghost is the dark wolf, gaz is the white wolf, and soap is the leopard!, it'll make sense later, arranged offering/non-consensual trade, mentions of dehumanization and folklore-based fear, implied threats of violence, implied cannibalism, fear of cannibalism, reader is in her 20's, implied sexual violence (fear of rape; does not occur), emotional distress (panic, fear, dissociation)

Reader discretion is advised!

>-;;⁠;⁠;€ᐷ word count: 1k+ words

Series Masterlist | next | moodboard | playlist

You should’ve known something was wrong.

You had only seen your parents once that morning—briefly, distantly—before the others swept you off to get ready. Your mother barely looked at you. Your father said nothing at all. They wore stiff expressions, both avoiding your eyes, speaking to others instead of to you. You told yourself it was just nerves. Ceremony jitters. Tradition, maybe. But something about it… something about it felt off.

Today was supposed to be a celebration. Your celebration.

They were honoring you—finally recognizing you as a woman of the village. After years of preparation, you had completed the long-standing ritual required of all women to earn that title. Now, you were of marrying age. That’s what they said, at least.

The feast, the procession, the jewelry pressed into your skin, the way your hands were painted with ink and powder—it was all tradition. All supposed to mark a joyful transition.

But joy didn’t come. Not from your parents. Not from you.

Even as the village cheered, even as petals were thrown and horns were blown, you couldn’t shake the tight coil in your gut. Couldn’t ignore how your hands trembled when they fastened your ceremonial cloak around your shoulders. Couldn’t stop the way your throat dried up when they kissed your forehead, then stepped back.

Why weren’t they smiling?

Why weren’t you?

The parade began.

You were paraded through the village like a lamb fattened for slaughter—crowned with woven branches, led barefoot through the dirt. Cheers followed you. So did drums. Women danced, children ran, and men watched.

And then…

Then something changed.

The music didn’t stop. But the people around you did.

Hands closed around your arms. You turned, confused, lips parted to speak, but they were already moving you. Steering you toward the edge of the square, past the far fences. You looked back once—just once.

Your parents didn’t stop them.

They didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t move.

You thought maybe it was part of the ritual. That it was symbolic. That perhaps you had to be led into the forest as part of becoming a woman.

But no one told you where you were going. No one answered your questions.

And then came the hood.

Rough cloth. Damp. Smelling of smoke and old leather. It was pulled over your head with practiced hands. Tight hands. You kicked, cried out, struggled until something hard cracked against your skull and the world went black.

⸻

You wake cold. Your bones ache. The world smells of damp earth and pine needles.

Your body is covered in furs you don’t recognize, resting on the floor of something that might be a tent—or maybe a cave. Light flickers behind your closed eyelids. A fire?

You open your eyes.

The ceiling above is made of thick animal hide, stitched together crudely. Bones line the seams. Your breath fogs in the air. You sit up slowly, teeth chattering.

Outside, voices murmur. Deep. Masculine. Sharp like flint.

You crawl toward the opening and peer out.

The forest surrounds you—tall, dark, endless. And scattered within it are shelters just like this one. Fires burn in pits. People move among them, cloaked in furs, metal glinting on their arms and chests.

Not your people.

Barbarians.

The ones your parents warned you about.

The ones they called less than men—the beasts who lived in the mountains, who raided villages, who wore wolves like armor and drank the blood of their enemies.

You scramble back, panic clawing its way up your throat. Your heart pounds so hard it echoes in your ears.

This wasn’t part of the ritual.

This wasn’t symbolic.

You weren’t being honored.

You’d been given.

You’d been offered.

Your parents gave you to them.

The same people they called savages. The same people they said weren’t even human.

You remember the way your mother’s voice dropped to a whisper whenever they were mentioned. How your father’s jaw would tighten when the name of their tribe was spoken aloud. Don’t say it where children can hear, he once warned, eyes darting to the corners of the room like something might be listening.

They spoke of these people like a myth. Like monsters.

Beasts in human skin who roamed the highlands, tasting human flesh like it was delicacy. Creatures who didn’t just want your body, but your soul—your emotions, your fear, your pain. They fed on it, lived in it, thirsted for it.

They were stories told by firelight, warnings woven into bedtime lullabies. Don’t stray from the path. Don’t follow the drums. Don’t answer the howling in the night.

And now, here you are.

Not stolen.

Traded.

Like meat.

Like nothing.

You can’t believe it.

You refuse to believe it.

No. There has to be something else—anything else. A mistake, a mix-up, some elaborate ritual your village kept secret until the final moment. Something twisted and old and symbolic.

But the truth keeps pressing in, heavy and suffocating.

You weren’t taken.

You were given.

Your thoughts race, frantic and desperate, trying to conjure even a single explanation that makes sense. Maybe it was a trade agreement. Maybe for peace. Or protection. A gesture of loyalty. A debt.

Maybe they didn’t want to, maybe they had no choice—

But no matter how you twist it, no matter how you try to make the puzzle fit, it all leads back to the same gut-sickening truth:

Your parents handed you over.

Their only child.

Their daughter.

They let you go without a fight.

Your breath comes faster now. Too fast. Your chest rises and falls in shallow gulps, your eyes burn as tears sting your lower lashes. You press your palms against the ground, trying to steady yourself, but the earth feels like it’s swaying beneath you.

And that’s when you hear it—

Footsteps.

Not one.

Several.

Heavy. Measured. Coming closer.

You freeze.

Then, instinct kicks in.

Your eyes dart around the tent—this massive structure of stitched hide and bone—but there’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. It’s just you and the fire. You press yourself back, scooting until you’re wedged in the farthest corner, limbs curled in, body shaking. The firelight flickers over you briefly, exposing the sheer panic on your face.

The footsteps stop just outside.

Your lungs go still.

The flap of the tent shifts—drawn aside—and they enter.

One by one.

Four enormous figures, each one ducking under the threshold, their sheer mass making the already-huge space feel crushingly small. Their presence is immediate. Dominant. Terrifying.

They don’t look human.

They look like nightmares.

Each one is cloaked in fur, bone, leather. Adorned with teeth and claws strung like trophies along their bodies. They wear masks—animal heads hollowed and worn like armor.

The first wears a towering bear skull atop his broad shoulders, his eyes hidden beneath the thick shadow of the mask. He carries no weapon, but you don’t need one to be dangerous when you’re that large.

The second wears a dark wolf’s head, pelt draped like a cloak over his chest. He doesn’t move like the others—there’s a stillness to him, a silence that makes your skin crawl.

The third is lighter, with a white wolf mask and a body decorated in ivory beads, claws, and pale fur. His head tilts when he looks at you, and for some reason, it feels almost gentle. Almost.

The fourth—

God. You hate the fourth.

He wears a cat-like animal mask—something feline, maybe a leopard. His chest is bare, thickly muscled, marked with old scars and painted lines. The way he walks is casual, almost amused. A predator with time to spare.

They stop just inside.

Four men.

Four monsters.

Four beasts.

You don’t know which one is worse.

You curl in tighter, trying to shrink into the shadows, praying they’ll ignore you. But they don’t speak. They just stare—through you, past you, into you. Like they’re trying to figure out if you’re a threat, or prey.

They feel too close.

Even when they’re standing on the other side of the fire, they feel right on top of you.

And somewhere deep in your stomach, dread coils.

You hope—God, you hope—that they really are monsters. That they’re more beast than man. Because if they’re men… if they’re human… if they have the capacity to feel, to want—

Then this will be so much worse.

You’ve heard stories. Of what men do. What they take. Of women discarded and broken, left as nothing but vessels for someone else’s hunger. If these are the kind of men your village feared—if your parents knew that, and still gave you up—

It would almost be better to be eaten.

Bones and all.

The silence stretches on, heavy and unbearable. You feel their eyes on you, picking you apart, weighing every breath, every twitch. You can’t stand it. You can’t stand the not knowing.

So you break.

Your voice comes out small, terrified. Cracked like old wood.

“Are you… gonna eat me?”

It’s barely more than a whisper. A child’s voice. A broken prayer.

The silence holds for one breath.

Two.

And then the leopard-mask lets out a howl of laughter.

It bursts from his chest like an explosion, his head thrown back as the sound echoes through the tent. Loud. Wild. Startling.

You flinch so hard your back hits the wall of the tent.

God, how you want that stupid cat to shut up.

The white wolf looks at you, visibly confused.

“…Eat… you…?” he repeats, tilting his head.

His voice is low, accented. Soft in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him.

The leopard is still laughing, hands on his hips now like he can’t breathe, and you burn with shame. Your face goes hot, your eyes prick with humiliation.

How stupid. How stupid you must sound.

“Johnny.” The bear-mask speaks at last. His voice is deep, gravelly, sharp with warning.

The laughing one—Johnny, apparently—chokes on another chuckle, then finally quiets, though you still see the grin twitching beneath his mask.

You press further back into the corner, wishing the earth would swallow you whole.

The white wolf is still watching you.

But something’s shifted.

He’s not confused anymore. He looks… curious.

And the silence returns.

bones and all mentioned 🤓 | lemme know if you wanna be in the taglist! | i will differently add more onto this like the moodboard and playlist ! | this took forever to make so please enjoy! | borders by @saradika-graphics !!

[z0mi3]

I have sm drafts and I finally finsihed chapter 1 of barbarian tf141 dropping soon!

[z0mi3]

Streetlights flicker softly above, casting pools of golden light across the sidewalk as the two of you walk side by side. The distant hum of traffic blends with the low buzz of cicadas in the warm night air. A cool breeze brushes past, tugging at your clothes and whipping your hair into your face. Beside you, Nanami’s usually pristine hair, always neatly slicked back at work, is mussed slightly by the wind, a few strands falling loose across his forehead. It’s strange, seeing him like this. Less buttoned-up. More… human. Gentle.

“You really didn’t have to walk me home, Nanami,” you say softly, glancing up at him. There’s a hint of guilt in your voice, though you’re secretly grateful. It’s rare to have time alone with him like this.

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, his hands tucked neatly into his coat pockets. “It’s really no problem,” he says, and a small, genuine smile appears, subtle, but unmistakable. “It wasn’t all that much trouble.”

You smile too, looking ahead again as the two of you slow your pace. “Still… I know you’ve been working non-stop lately. You could’ve gone straight home.”

“I could’ve,” he replies, calm as always. “But I didn’t want to.”

That quiet admission makes your heart skip. It’s simple. Honest. You don’t reply right away, unsure how to answer something like that without sounding like a schoolgirl with a crush. Which, unfortunately, you sort of are.

Nanami stops at the curb as you reach your building. He turns slightly to face you. “I know you’ve had a hard week. Between the mission and all the reports piling up… I just thought you might want the company.”

You glance at him again, the way his eyes soften when they meet yours. He always speaks so plainly, so carefully. Like every word is chosen with purpose. You admire that about him—his control, his composure. He never lets anything slip… and yet here he is, letting his guard down just a little.

“I do want the company,” you admit quietly. “Especially yours.”

For a moment, the air between you shifts. Something unspoken hovers just beneath the surface—warm, uncertain, but full of potential.

He exhales softly, almost like a sigh of relief. “That’s good to hear.”

You glance at his hair again, a small laugh escaping before you can stop it. “Your hair’s all messed up, by the way.”

He raises a brow, bringing one hand up to smooth it back with his usual precision. “Is it that bad?”

“Not bad,” you say, still smiling. “Just… different. Kind of nice, actually.”

He lets out a quiet hum, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but the corner of his mouth quirks up again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You linger at the entrance of your apartment building, neither of you making a move to leave.

“Do you want to come in for tea or something?” you ask before you can talk yourself out of it. “Only if you’re not too tired.”

There’s a beat of silence, and for a second you think he’ll politely decline, like he usually does. But then he nods once, slowly.

“I wouldn’t mind tea.”

Your heart does another flip, but you manage to keep your face calm, at least on the outside.

You push the door open and hold it for him. He steps in beside you, and for the first time in weeks, something feels a little easier. A little lighter. You’re not sure where this is going, or what it means, but for tonight… it’s enough.

@bbyg4rlhelps for the beautiful dividers! | some nanami content bc he’s genuinely my man

[z0mi3]

Locking in and writing barbarian tf141 rn 🫡

[z0mi3]

Your Butcher!Ghost (was it butcher!Ghost? The one where ghost feeds you is whay reminded me of this ig ( •_•)) reminds you of Texas Chainsaw Massacre’s Leatherface—hulking and terrifying, but not evil, not really. Just made into a monster by the man who raised him.

Leatherface!Ghost, who was once a boy named Simon. A quiet thing. Raised on blood and bone, hidden away in the rotting belly of a house that hadn’t known sunlight in decades. His father—the real monster—taught him how to use a blade before he could speak full sentences. Told him that pain was a currency. That outsiders were intruders. That love was for the weak. But somewhere in that fractured mind, some soft thing survived. A remnant.

Leatherface!Ghost who spots your car when it limps into town on a shredded tire. He’s watching from the treeline near the old gas station—silent, unmoving, massive. His skull-like mask blends with the shadows, and for something his size, he moves like fog. You don’t see him. But he sees you.

You’re standing by the car, arms crossed, frustrated and helpless. He watches the wind whip your hair into your face. Watches the way you swat it away with a little huff. There’s a wrinkle in your brow and a softness in your mouth that cracks something open in him.

You don’t know it, but the moment you sighed, he decided. You’re his.

Leatherface!Ghost who returns to the house—an ancient, creaking carcass filled with chains, bones, and whispers—and tells his father what he saw. His father snarls. Says, “We don’t keep pets, boy. You wanna love somethin’? Then you kill it proper.” But this time, Simon doesn’t back down. He doesn’t bow his head. He just sharpens the chain and waits.

Later that day, he’s stalking the woods near the road. The boy who touched you too much—laughing too loud, fingers on your waist—is walking ahead of the others. That’s the one. That’s who he starts with. The chainsaw revs like an animal, and Leatherface!Ghost barrels out of the brush like a nightmare made flesh.

It’s messy. The way he likes it.

Leatherface!Ghost who drags the body back to the cellar, but not before cutting off a piece of the kid’s varsity jacket. A trophy, maybe. Or a warning.

Leatherface!Ghost who watches you from the dark as you wander into the woods, looking for your missing friend. You’re scared, calling his name. Voice trembling. You don’t even know you’re being herded.

He could take you then—but he doesn’t. He lets you run. Just a little. Just enough to make your legs burn and your breath hitch. He watches your eyes dart back and forth, your chest rising and falling in panic. It thrills something sick in him. Not because he wants to hurt you—but because it makes the moment of capture feel like fate.

Because in this town, people don’t just die. They disappear.

The locals know the stories. The gas station clerk who keeps his mouth shut. The signs that say NO SERVICE. KEEP OUT. The way radios cut out when you pass a certain mile marker. The scent of something rotting when the wind shifts.

And then there are the ghosts. Not the metaphorical kind. The real ones. Spirits of the ones who didn’t make it. They linger around the house, wailing between the walls, clawing at the floorboards. Sometimes, you swear the bones upstairs move. The house is cursed—fed by the blood spilled within.

And Ghost? He’s not just a man anymore. Not really. The house has sunk its claws into him too. The chainsaw isn’t the only thing that screams.

Leatherface!Ghost who finally catches you—mud-slick and sobbing, too tired to keep running—and lifts you like you weigh nothing. He doesn’t hurt you. Just holds you against his chest, heart hammering behind the leather mask, and growls low in your ear, “Mine.”

The ghosts in the walls fall silent. Watching. Waiting.

And somewhere deep in that blood-soaked house, his father begins to realize: he’s not in control anymore. Simon has found something he wants more than fear. More than obedience.

He’s found you.

And nothing—not blood, not chainsaws, not even death—is going to take you away from him.

- @z0mi3 (should I turn this into something more? 🫣)

cw: leatherface! simon, mentions of murder, kinda fluffy? he's not mean, just emotionally constipated.

i don't think i named his occupation but he could very well be a butcher!!! he's built for it. big like a tank, is not squeamish and has deadly precision with a knife. add serial killer to that mix? oooofff.

you probably weren't there on purpose, planning to stay maybe a day or two just to relax a bit before continuing on with your little road trip with some friends. but stopping there was your biggest mistake.

he may be messy, but he's meticulous. plans out where he's going to make the boy run. slashed your tires with a purpose so it would stop right next to the forest.

the perfect hunting ground for him. it's been a long time since he's had the pleasure of hunting a little rabbit.

you run and you run, but deep down you know it's useless. that you're able to get this far is because he let you. he's playing with you. something about that really irks you.

when you stop in your tracks and just stare at him for a distance, he's amused. you even try to negotiate with him, about how your parents could give him money, lots of it. so he could get a nice haircut, some new clothes.

oh, how adorable.

that's alright, he'll teach you. you'll learn that you don't need to worry about pesky little things like money here. all you need to do is to look pretty and let him take care of you.

RAHHHHH love me a good ol' fictional stalker. can never get enough. and yes. TURN IT INTO SOMETHING MORE!!! i yearn for it <3

[z0mi3]

The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed through your tiny kitchen.

“Who the hell installs copper pipes and plastic joints?” Kyle muttered, his voice halfway swallowed by the cabinet. “Feels like sabotage.”

You sat cross-legged on the cool floor just beside him, your shoulder brushing the wooden cupboard as condensation dripped from your popsicle onto your thigh. His toolbox lay open nearby, screws and fittings scattered like candy.

“I told you it was leaking like crazy,” you said between licks, sticky sugar cooling your tongue.

“Didn’t know it was gonna be a whole plumbing mystery.”

You grinned. “Well, lucky me. I got Kyle ‘Fix-It-All’ Garrick on speed dial.”

That earned you a low laugh. “Don’t gas me. I’m sweatin’ bullets under here.”

And he was.

The summer air pressed in thick through the open windows, the faint hum of a fan doing nothing but pushing hot air in circles. The sticky heat of summer had your curls clinging to your cheeks, and your AC, bless its dying heart, had long since given up. The only breeze came from your screen door, and it smelled like heat and cut grass.

Your shirt stuck to your back, his shirt, technically, from a night he didn’t plan on staying over but ended up passed out on your couch anyway. You never gave it back.

Kyle glanced at you when you shifted your weight, the movement pulling the shirt higher on your thighs. You caught the flicker of his gaze, quick, instinctive. Then he dipped his head again, back under the sink.

“I heard you had words with someone in your class?” he prompted, as if trying to distract himself.

You let out a groan. “Don’t even get me started. Group project from hell. This guy literally ghosted me the day of the presentation. Left me to do the whole thing by myself.”

He let out a low whistle. “That’s mad.”

“I swear, if I ever see him again—”

“You’ll hit him with your PowerPoint clicker?”

You scoff out a laugh. “Damn right I will.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Dickhead move.”

“Right? Like—”

But your voice started to trail off. Not because you’d run out of rage. But because something else caught your attention.

He dove back under the sink, but you weren’t watching the pipes anymore.

His shirt clung to him with sweat, riding up slightly to expose his waist. The muscle. The curve of his spine. The soft trail of hair disappearing into the band of his jeans. Your eyes lingered longer than they should’ve. Your heart did a little skip when your gaze drifted lower, his fly straining slightly against the curve of him, his thighs tense as he adjusted position.

You swallowed.

Maybe the heat was getting to you.

Kyle’s voice snapped you out of it. “Almost got it,” he said, his tone rough from the exertion. He twisted something beneath the sink, biceps flexing as he leaned further in.

You looked away, heart thudding too loudly in your chest.

“I should be paying you for this,” you muttered, suddenly shy, biting at the tip of your popsicle.

He huffed. “You? Never.”

“Still… you didn’t have to come all the way over here.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “You called.”

The words were simple. Steady. And they rooted into you.

You peeked over at him again. He’d pulled back a bit to rest on his haunches, wiping his brow with the hem of his shirt. It lifted just enough to show more skin, more temptation.

And he saw you looking.

His eyes lingered on your bare legs, your parted lips, the popsicle you were gripping like it was suddenly fragile.

“Y’alright?” he asked, quieter now.

“Hot,” you said, meaning more than just the weather.

He nodded, like he understood.

“I’ll be done soon,” he said, voice low and thick.

You nodded too, unsure if you wanted him to hurry or never finish at all.

The silence stretched comfortable and electric.

Then he added, with a crooked half-smile, “Don’t suppose I’ll be gettin’ that shirt back anytime soon, yeah?”

You looked down at yourself, then up at him again. “Nope.”

His gaze softened. Something unspoken passed between you.

“Good,” he said.

And then he turned back toward the sink, leaving you dizzy and burning with all the things neither of you had yet to say.

dividers by @saradika-graphics !!

[z0mi3]

don't mind me just thinking abt cowboy!gaz

[z0mi3]

Simon’s been missing for months.

At first, it was panic. Sleepless nights. Missed calls. You paced the kitchen floor like a ghost, heart hammering with every unknown number that lit up your phone. Maybe something happened. Maybe he was hurt. Or worse.

But that was before you called the base.

Before some stone-cold voice on the other end told you your husband hadn’t gone missing he’d been deployed. Four months ago. Without a word. No note. No goodbye. No explanation. He left like a shadow and didn’t look back.

And now you’re just angry.

Livid.

Because the man you trusted with your life didn’t even have the decency to tell you he was leaving.

It’s a little after 1 a.m. when you hear it, the dull slam of a car door. Then boots. Heavy and familiar on the pavement outside. You don’t rush to greet him. You don’t cry. You don’t even blink.

You stay in the kitchen, elbow-deep in last night’s dishes because sleep doesn’t visit your side of the bed anymore.

And why would it? That bed hasn’t felt like home since he left it.

You hear the lock click. Then the door creaks open.

Then—silence.

You don’t turn around.

“This how you greet me now?” His voice cuts through the quiet.

You don’t answer.

“Seriously?” he says, sharper. “I come back from hell, and I get a cold shoulder?”

That makes you laugh but it’s hollow. Bitter. You set a dish down with too much force. “Hell? You think you’re the only one who’s been through it?”

Simon stiffens in the doorway.

You turn, eyes sharp. “You left, Simon. You vanished. I thought something happened to you. I thought you were dead.”

“I couldn’t tell you—”

“Don’t give me that shit,” you cut him off. “You didn’t even try. You let some random operator be the one to break the news. You didn’t have the balls to tell your own wife that you were leaving.”

He steps forward, jaw tight. “You think it was easy for me? You think I wanted to go?”

“Then why didn’t you say something?”

“I was protecting you—”

“Don’t.” You hold up a hand, shaking your head. “Don’t feed me that line. You didn’t protect me. You abandoned me.”

Silence floods the room again, thick and bitter.

He exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Let’s talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Why not?”

You look away, voice cracking despite yourself. “Because talking leads to arguing. Arguing leads to nowhere. And I’m just… I’m tired, Simon. I’m so tired.”

He watches you quietly. “Okay. Let’s go to sleep then.”

You let out a soft scoff. “Not like that you aren’t.”

He frowns. “Like what?”

You look at him for the first time in full really look. His face is tired. Eyes dull. Shoulders weighed down like he’s carrying something he can’t put down. But it’s not enough. Not after everything.

“Like a soldier.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then another.

Something in his expression falters.

“I want to sleep with my husband,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “Not some stranger in a uniform. Not someone who shuts me out, who leaves without a word, who walks back in like I should be grateful.”

The pain is all over your face in the tight press of your lips, the furrow in your brow, the shine in your eyes you refuse to let fall.

“Is that too much to ask?”

You don’t wait for an answer. You turn your back and walk toward the bedroom, the weight of your words dragging behind you like chains.

Simon stays in the kitchen, frozen. Still in his boots. Still not the man you married.

And the silence swallows him whole.

dividers by @thecutestgrotto | i wrote this while listening to Not You Too by Drake at 4 am !! o(≧∇≦o)

[z0mi3]

Omgs-! I just took a closer look at your profile background(?) picture, and got a huge rush of nostalgia! Dork Diaries got me through middle school 😭

Omg same!! I loved dork diaries and it will always have a special place in my heart!!

[z0mi3]

I KNEW IT !! But y’all winnn barbarian tf141 coming right up!

(ill be so embarrassed if no one votes)

[z0mi3]

“Toru,” you mumble to the big lump of muscle currently clinging to your bottom.

The boy hums at you, his head lifting slightly from where it was resting across your midsection, his white hair tousled, lips pink from sleep or pouting.

“You’re heavy.”

“I’m comfy.”

You reach down to try and nudge him off, but he only buries his face deeper against your side with a dramatic groan.

“I swear to God, Satoru—”

“You don’t mean that,” he mumbles, pressing a lazy kiss just above your hip. “You love me.”

“Debatable.”

He lifts his head again, finally making eye contact. His stupidly bright blue eyes scan your face as he pouts exaggeratedly.

“I’m starved for attention,” he whines.

“You were literally draped over me like a blanket for the last hour.”

“Physical touch and verbal affection. I’m a complex man.”

You roll your eyes, but he only grins. And you already know what he’s thinking before he says it:

“Give me a kiss.”

“God, you’re such a brat.”

“Pretty brat.”

With a huff, you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. But that only makes him smirk and shift.

“Again. Here. And here. Oh, and right here—”

He taps different spots on his face, guiding you with that ridiculous grin of his. You give in, barely biting back your laugh, and scatter quick kisses across his cheeks and jaw and forehead.

You pause, ready to pull away, but he tilts his head, lips slightly parted, waiting.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know you, and you’re gonna try to turn this into a makeout session five seconds later.”

Satoru gasps like you’ve slapped him. “That’s so unfair. When have I ever—”

“Tuesday.”

He pauses. “Okay, but—”

“And last Friday. And literally every time I kiss you for more than two seconds.”

“You make it sound like I’m a monster,” he pouts, curling around you again, arms looping around your waist as he rests his chin on your stomach. “I just crave love in high doses. Sue me.”

You tug lightly at the white strands near his forehead, brushing them back. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here I am. In your bed. Wrapped around you like a clingy koala.”

“Koalas are mean.”

“I’m only mean when you threaten to stop kissing me.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re lucky I like you.”

That makes him grin wide, nose scrunching like a kid who just got away with something.

“You love me,” he sing-songs.

“Don’t push it.”

“Say it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Or what?”

He grins, devilishly slow, and then starts to shift.

You don’t like that grin. That grin means trouble.

“Toru,” you warn, but he’s already halfway up your body, rolling his weight forward so he’s got you pinned beneath him, one leg thrown lazily across yours and his face hovering just above yours.

“Or I’ll smother you with affection,” he threatens softly, in that mock-serious tone of his that always makes your stomach flip. “I’ll kiss you until you admit it.”

You scoff, trying to act unimpressed, even as your fingers curl into his t-shirt.

“That’s not really a threat.”

“Oh no?” he leans in, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. “I’ll be annoying about it. I’ll be the worst.”

“You already are the worst.”

“And yet, you still let me in your bed,” he whispers, lowering himself until his lips graze your jaw, “still let me hold you,” then your cheek, “still let me—”

You shove a hand against his mouth before he can finish, barely holding back your laughter. “You’re a menace.”

He speaks against your palm, muffled, “Say it and I’ll stop.”

“God, you’re relentless.”

He just winks.

You sigh, dragging your hand down his face with exaggerated exhaustion. “Fine. I like you. A little.”

“A little?”

“Like… a medium amount.”

He groans like he’s been personally wronged. “You are killing me.”

“Good.”

“Okay, that’s it—” And then he attacks, not with force, but with kisses loud, obnoxious ones, all over your face, neck, collarbone wherever he can reach as you squirm and squeal under him.

“Satoru!” you laugh, swatting at him.

“Say you love me!”

“Never!”

“Say it or suffer!”

You’re both breathless by the time he slows down, collapsed on top of you again, laughing against your neck.

You run a hand through his hair, soft and messy from all the movement. His voice is quiet now, almost shy, muffled by your skin.

“I love you, y’know.”

You freeze just a second just long enough for him to notice. But before he can say anything else, you whisper:

“…I know.”

You feel his smile press against your shoulder, arms tightening around you like he finally got what he wanted.

But what you don’t tell him what you’re not brave enough to say just yet is that you love him too.

Maybe more than a little.

Maybe more than even he realizes.

dividers by @cursed-carmine | art by @scarlettismm on Twitter