somnambuletta

a dream half-spoken, a hymn half-lost - drifting between divinity and oblivion

[somnambuletta]

𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕

☀️ 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓷𝓪𝓶𝓫𝓾𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓪 she/her — multi-muse writing blog for canon characters from various fandoms; including call of duty (modern warefare + ghosts), marble hornets, and creepypasta. please refer to masterlist! 🔞 MDNI page!

brian thomas/tim wright enthusiast. inspired by greek mythology + blasphemous content.

jack/lamb story coming soon? 😱

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

pinterest. / playlist. / masterlist.

[somnambuletta]

simon holding his daughter for the first time

yes

no

Voting ended onNov 26, 2025

strawberry baby fic readers please answer 🫡

[somnambuletta]

glutton for abstinence

in slumber, jack traces apostolic warnings against your skin in the letters of forgotten alphabet.

he writes them just beneath your navel, where the sweat still beads like holy oil. symbols not meant for the clean or the saved. glyphs from tongues that spoke before language—before law—when gods still walked barefoot and bloody through the tall grass of olympus, when desire was a thing worshipped and feared.

you do not wake, but your body spares thoughts. still shaking from the storm he summoned inside you, not moments before. your thighs twitch as if recalling the parting of them. your stomach rises and falls in shallow cadence, a psalter cooed in broken breath.

his talons move slow, awed and devout. they draw lazy circles into the damp flesh of your belly, and though they could open you like scripture, they do not. they linger instead. teasing. tempting. a lion lying with a lamb and dreaming of hunger.

he curls his chest over your back, and you feel the tremble of his panting—like a furnace behind your spine. not the panting of exertion, no. that has passed.

such is the panting of restraint, and such is worse.

jack presses his face into your hair and inhales with the desperation of a dying priest. he smells you like a thing sanctified, like you're perfumed in frankincense and blood. the scent of your perspiration, your spent body, the sweetness of sleep still salted with sin—it drives him mad. jack buries himself in it, nose pushed deep into your strands, and whimpers. he whimpers.

you are heat and holiness, a lamb made unclean beneath his teeth.

and he kisses your neck again, trembling lips grazing the bruises he left there like a penitent revisiting his own blasphemy.

“echo,” jack whispers. the name drips down your skin like wax.

“galatea. my little hebe.” names of girl-gods built to please and perish. nymphs doomed to serve the love of louder gods, softer creatures devoured by the affections of titans. he chooses them carefully.

you stir, only faintly. a little sigh. a twist of your wrist against the sheets. and he stills—listening. watching. wanting.

even now, with your body wrung out and quiet, you are too much for him. you sleep like a sacrament desecrated in secret. jack watches like the devil at the tabernacle, hands trembling with need.

he tries to be good, but his chest bellows, rising and falling in staggered bursts against your spine. breath hot, frantic—dampening the back of your nape like how mothers lick the wet off their children. his mouth hovers open just above the bruises he’s already carved into your shoulder, teeth bared in approbation and regret; because he knows you’d taste of heaven if heaven were made of meat. and he can still taste you.

on the back of his tongue, copper-slick and warm. a ghost of what he took from you, what you gave him so freely—your body quivering, your voice caught somewhere between prayer and plea. it lingers in his mouth, sweet and obscene, and it kills him.

his tongue moves before his thoughts do. dragging along your shoulder. not to clean. not to kiss— but because jack must have.

and then his teeth follow. a little pressure. enough to feel the divot where his last mark still purples.

he groans—low, pained. almost pitiful.

he could. god, he could. it would be so fucking easy.

jack could peel you open like pomegranate fruit, sweet and gleaming inside. could split your ribs like dry wood and feast. he knows where your liver sleeps beneath the skin. he could reach it. he could tear it loose with nothing but hands and hunger and that slow, holy strength that haunts the cursed. he imagines it often: red meat steaming in his palms, slick and delicate as cow’s tongue.

and your heart—still fluttering like a bird even as he bites down.

but he doesn’t. he won’t.

because you are his lamb.

his soft thing. and though you smell divine—sweaty and wet and glowing with heat from the inside out—he cannot take you that way. not yet. not ever, if he can help it. the want claws at his ribs, gnashes behind his teeth. it begs to be loosed. but he presses his face deeper into your hair and moans instead, quiet and broken, the sound of a man damning himself with every breath.

he shudders, holding you tighter. worshipping through restraint.

the wolf does not bite the lamb— not because he is not hungry,

but because he has fallen in love with the sound of her heartbeat.

and though she sleeps beside him, offered, undone, he buries his face in her neck and does not feed.

because he would rather ache than lose her.

and oh, how jack aches.

[somnambuletta]

we are so fucking back guys

[somnambuletta]

the baby is a mess.

a glorious, strawberry-stained, unapologetically chaotic mess.

chubby fists full of crushed fruit, cheeks stained red like a tiny dionysus on a sugar high. the kid is perched in the front of a shopping trolley, squealing with unfiltered joy as she squishes another berry against her lips and then—perhaps in a fit of generosity—smears it into her father's shirt. you coo.

coo, like something soft and maternal has cracked open inside you, and simon watches it happen in real time—watches you light up like you’ve just witnessed the first sunrise in human history. “oh my god,” you whisper, slowing your pace beside him. “look at her. look at her face.”

simon is already looking.

he can’t not look.

that baby is a walking portrait of everything he doesn’t have and everything he’s been trying not to want.

the pink sneakers with velcro straps. the milk-drunk eyes. the chubby elbow rolls. the cartoon rabbit on her bib, now stained a bloody red from berry carnage. she's a masterpiece of mess and joy, and simon’s knees suddenly feel like they've gone soft.

he’s staring. hard.

“si,” you tease, nudging him. “don’t gawk.”

“'m not gawkin',” he lies, mouth dry. “just… watchin’. 'lil gremlin’s got a good arm.”

as if to prove point, the baby flings half a strawberry across the market lane with frightening accuracy. it lands near the produce stall. she shrieks with delight.

you laugh. and something in simon cracks.

he can see it, clear as anything: your laugh at the kitchen table, a baby in your lap, sticky fingers tugging at your shirt, the sound of little feet slapping down the hall in the morning.

simon's not just looking at a baby.

he’s looking at a blueprint for the life he’s never let himself build.

and suddenly, he wants it so badly he could scream. “bloody hell,” he mutters, turning away like the sight physically pains him. “she’s killin’ me.”

you tilt your head. “what’s that, soldier?”

he looks at you with the wide, haunted eyes of a man on the edge. “i want one.”

you blink. “a strawberry?”

“no,” he rasps. “a baby.”

[gkratze]

HAIIIII I’m alive guys I swear!!! Just do some other stuff for myself bcs i really love my oc and.. ya know. BUT I’m also have TWO [ 2 ] WIP with Ticci Toby aaaaand the Cat ( from Coraline ) 🤯

Just wait…..pls…. I need some time…..

[ btw my old sketch with EJ ]

[somnambuletta]

Jack with a reader who's one of the cult members that sacrificed him and still worships him after killing the rest of the cult is so fire... a small idea for a fic !

hi anon! this is such a cool concept. absolutely love this. thank you for the request, and as per:

﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊

"and he said unto her, daughter, thy faith hath made thee whole."

the others called it a sacrifice.

you called it a revelation.

he was beautiful then—jack. just jack. hair mussed from sleep, face wrung with exhaustion from nights of biological studies, eyes too kind for the world they burned him in. he bled like any lamb on that altar stone, but he did not bleat. he screamed. you still hear it—between your ribs, behind your teeth, echoing in your sleep like a psalm you were never meant to know.

they held him down. jenny, the others. coaked in red and full of righteousness. they fed him to chernobog like meat to a furnace, all praise and no prayer. they saw a boy and wanted a god. and they thought the birthing would be clean.

it wasn’t.

the eyes were the first to go—tar poured into the sockets like oil for anointing. you remember how it hissed against his lashes. how he thrashed when they chanted. how his mouth begged for mercy that no soul offered.

you had never believed in god until you heard jack scream.

and when he came back, slick with afterbirth and fury, you knew what the others could not:

this was not chernobog’s creation.

this was yours.

so you killed them. one by one. knife to the throat. stone to the skull. with reverence. with love. because gods should not be welcomed with a crowd. because worship is quieter when it’s just the two of you.

and when jack rose, slick-eyed and blood-drenched, his hands shaking with rebirth—he looked at you, and did not kill you.

you knelt, and you thanked him, even as he took his fill within his maw. his inanition was quenched by innards.

"they have made a calf in horeb, and worshipped the molten image."

"thus they changed their glory into the similitude of an ox that eateth grass."

so it was written— and so it was true.

you saw him reborn not as man, not as myth, but as something else. a crawling, gasping, half-formed divinity. and you loved him still. as if your eyes had never seen gold. as if all the glory of the world had been poured into the body of a butchered student, and you would drink of it, sip by sip, until your belly swelled with sin.

he stood there— jack, or what was left of him—dripping in the blood of he and friends. of witnesses. of fools who played priest and got what priests deserve.

and yet, he touched you not.

he looked at you, in the way eyeless gods look at temples that have never fallen. “did you watch?” he asked, voice cracked like dried paint. “did you see what i did to them?”

you nodded, because you had. because he had asked. because a criminal can not judge one of a lesser, or similar crime. "yes."

“do you think i became a monster?”

you looked up, hands slick with dried blood, your own robe torn from pulling at the dead.

“..no. they made calf and called it holy. i made a god with my hands. and i call it you.”

the cave’s stale air swallowed the words. his ragged breath stirred the dust at your feet, oxen in expire.

you could see the flicker of something—recognition? resentment?—in the hollow where eyes once were, in the twitching of his brows.

he stepped closer, slow, deliberate, like a predator testing the pulse of a wounded thing. his hand hovered—fingers curling in the empty air where your face had been, as if trying to remember the shape of your skin. the scarred claw of his palm brushed your jaw, featherlight, a prayer you almost dared to call tender.

“you were one of them,” he rasped, voice like dry leaves scratching stone. “one of those who sent me to nihil.”

you met his touch with your own trembling fingers, closing the space his claws barely filled. “i was. but i saved you, too.”

he laughed, a sound like a curse unraveling. “saved? you— they- buried me in darkness. poured hell into my eyes. what salvation is this?”

you swallowed the ache; with victor like realization of your own creations' cognition. “you were never theirs to kill. you were mine to make.”

jack leaned forward, the faintest shiver of longing in the way his forehead nearly touched yours. “and what do you want from a god born in blood and vein? you kneel to the wrong god.”

you met the hollows of his face with the hollow in your chest and whispered, “i want you. and if that is transgress; then damn me for it.”

“for all have sinned, and come short of the glory of god.”

[somnambuletta]

simon doesn’t know the first thing about jewelry. doesn’t like it, doesn’t wear it, doesn’t trust it not to glint and give away position in the dark. but he finds himself here anyway— bent beneath fluorescent lighting that makes his scars itch, staring down at a velvet box like it’s a loaded gun.

he thinks of your hands, soft and small against the callused map of his. thinks of the way you tuck your fingers beneath his when you sleep, like you’re hiding there. thinks of the pink polish you wear in spring, the way it chips at the edges when you’re nervous, the way you doodled a tiny skull on your ring finger once, just to make him laugh.

(it did. it broke something open in him, that laugh.)

the jeweler says something—clarity, cut, carat, whatever—but it doesn’t register. simon’s lost in the thought of your hands wearing him. of something shining on your finger that says 'this one’s mine'. not in words, no. not in threats or bullets or bone-deep oaths. just in gold. au and awe.

he picks the one that reminds him of the curve of your smile. simple. clean. a little old-fashioned, like you still believe in fairy tales.

he cups it in his palm like it’s fragile. like it’s you.

for a long moment, the lieutenant doesn’t move. just stands there, big and out of place, a war machine in a room built for benevolence.

his thumb brushes over the band, slow, reverent.

he can almost feel your laugh ghosting over his shoulder. the one you give him when he’s being too serious, too still. the one that pulls him from the dark every damn time. simon wonders if you’ll cry.

wonders if your hands will shake when he slides it on, or if they’ll be steady, like they always are when you touch him.

steady enough to carry the weight of him—of this. of all he can’t say, and all he’s been too afraid to hope for.

[somnambuletta]

third in the bed of saints (mdni 🔞)

the bible was never a book to you. it was body.

a mouth. a voice that sang even when the caverns of your mind flooded, and the world went dark.

you used to read it out loud when you couldn’t sleep—when the dreams were bad and the bones of your life rattled in the closet. its pages smelled like the attic of your childhood home: mothdust, cedarwood, old polish that lifted itself from the floorboards and stained your knees with chestnut. when the world grew too loud, you let the psalms speak for you. when you knelt, it was not for penance but for touch—to feel something gentle hold you in place.

even now, you sleep with the cross around your neck, chain tucked into the hollow of your collarbone like a secret. you don’t always believe in it. but it’s always believed in you.

hoodie noticed it the first night he watched you undress.

that was the same night he asked the question—

"what the fuck do you need god for, when 'm 'ere?"

you had no answer. not at the time. and certainly not now, when he’s above you, inside you, tearing the breath from your lungs one thrust at a time.

﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊

the mask stays on, always. that sharp amber stare doesn’t blink once as he fucks you into the mattress, hard and unrelenting, like your body is the last thing in the world that can keep him tethered. and maybe it is. maybe that's why hoodie is so mean with it.

you cling to him, whining, gasping his name between bitten lips. sweat runs down your spine. your legs tremble with the effort to keep him close.

he notices everything. especially the way your cross swings with each thrust, catching against your skin.

his hand shoots out and rips it from your neck. the chain snaps with a sound too loud for such a small thing. hoodie holds it up, dangling it just above your face, still buried deep inside you.

“tha’s what you needed?” he scoffs. “this fuckin' thing?”

his hips slam forward, making your breath stutter. the cross swings. it glints like mockery in the low light of your room.

“ya' really think he’s watchin'?” his voice is molten and low, a cruel whisper against your ear. “you think he wants to see what i do to ya, swee'art?”

“n-no—” you try to turn your head, but he grabs your chin and forces your gaze back up. makes you look at it.

at him.

“you let me inside you. ya' pray when you moan.” a wicked smile beneath the mask. “you tell me, darlin'—does that make me god?”

a sob bubbles up from your throat, more breath than voice. your hands claw into his arms. hoodie doesn't stop.

“‘your body 's a temple,’ right?” hoodie jeers, voice thick with dark delight. “well. ’m burnin' it to the fuckin' ground.”

you squeeze your eyes shut. “please—”

“please? that your prayer, sweets?”

he presses the cross to your lips like communion, lets it clink against your teeth as his hips hammer into you. it tastes like sweat. like ruin. like everything sacred, turned sour.

“go 'head. recite somethin' for me,” he whispers. “give me a fuckin' verse. go on. le’s see if the good book can save ya' now.”

you choke on a hic. but the words come anyway—half-breathed, half-begged:

“yea, though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

hoodie groans, his rhythm shattering for a moment, sliding a hand up your neck for stability.

you whisper the rest into the cold metal. “i will fear no evil—”

“you should.”

the hand at your throat tightens, not enough to hurt—but enough to remind. his breath shudders as he fucks you to peak, like he’s trying to mark you from the inside out.

“you think he’s gonna save you from me?” he pants. “you think he’d want to? look at ya'.. look what you let me do.”

your thighs quake. your body breaks under the weight of him, but there’s no hiding the slick heat between your legs, the desperate way your hips buck up to meet him. it’s not mercy you’re crying for—it’s more.

“ya' don’t need him,” hoodie scolds. “you don’t need anythin' but this.”

“but me.”

[somnambuletta]

litany of tongue and thigh (mdni 🔞)

(your neighbor, johnny, eats you out instead of the dinner you prepared for him)

you had precisely eight minutes to hide the cranachan.

not because it was ugly—no, it was beautiful. a proper scottish dessert made with your own two hands: raspberries like crushed rubies, honey-kissed cream whipped into firm, indulgent peaks, oats toasted golden and layered like sediment in a museum of lust.

but johnny?

johnny mactavish was a fucking heathen.

the man would open the fridge, make eye contact with a dessert like it owed him money, and consume it with the reverence of a starving dionysian priest. once, he ate an entire tray of millionaire’s shortbread with bare hands, and you never spoke of it again.

you shoved the glass lowball into the fridge’s crisper drawer—behind celery he’d never touch—and whispered a quiet prayer to hestia, goddess of hearths and hiding sweets from men with war in their blood and sugar in their teeth.

then: the sound of a key. and a breath later—him.

the door opened like a scene change in a play: same apartment, new tension. mactavish filled the room like smoke and sin, duffle bag slung low, tired grin barely held together by the crinkles at his eyes. his jacket smelled like the outside—diesel and cold and a little like whatever country had tried to kill him this time.

“thought i smelled heaven,” he muttered, voice gone raspy from weeks of foreign dust and radio static.

you grinned over your shoulder from the stove. “welcome home, soldier.”

johnny grinned proper then, wide and boyish, all dimples and soft eyes and the dangerous kind of affection—the kind that made you forget he could kill a man with nothing but a shoelace and a bad attitude. that grin was a weapon all its own.

“christ,” he said, slinging the duffel to the floor with a grunt, “missed tha' mouth.”

you arched a brow. “the one currently feeding you?”

he strode up behind you, boots left behind, socks mismatched as ever, and wrapped both arms around your waist with a contented sound that bordered on a purr. his chin found your shoulder. the heat of him kissed your spine.

“smells like sunday at mah gran’s.” his nose brushed your neck, lingering. “wha' am i gettin’? and dinna say 's healthy. a've earned sin.”

“garlic mashed potatoes,” you answered, nudging the spoon in the pot. “roasted lamb. little rosemary. and—” he groaned. groaned, like he’d just seen the pearly gates and saint peter was holding a pint. “ye’re gonna make me weep, lass. ’ll put a ring on 'yer finger 'fore dessert.”

“dessert’s hidden.”

“och, is it, now?” his voice dropped to a minacious lilt. “wha' have ye' done with mah cranachan, ye' wicked 'lil thief?”

you tried not to laugh. “you’ll get it after dinner, if you behave.”

“mm.” he leaned in closer. “i don' remember signin' any behavioral clause 'n our neighborly agreement..”

suddenly, his hand darted for the pot. you caught it mid-air with a smack. he yelped, half-laughing, half-wounded.

“yeow! bloody 'ell, woman! assaulted in mah own home!”

“hands off the potatoes,” you warned. “or you’re getting nothing.”

johnny gave you a look. the kind that was all heat and cheek. roguish and troublesome. breakneck. that curl of his lip that meant you’d either end up in trouble—or on the couch, legs shaking, mind blank, worshipped like some minor harvest goddess he’d just rediscovered after years at sea.

“aye, then,” he said, too calmly. “if i cannae 'ave tha'…”

his hands—once polite and teasing—slid slow, deliberate, down your hips. “…’ll take this.”

before you could reply, he sank down, all the way, dropping to his knees behind you with the theatrical drama of a supplicant at a sacred altar.

“john.”

“shh,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of your thigh, warm and wanting. “a've been livin’ on protein bars, crap coffee, 'nd fuckin’ dirt for weeks. ya' think 'm waitin’ for bloody potatoes?”

his hands rose to your waistband with reverent slowness. he pressed his face to the curve of your ass and groaned, like he’d just been served salvation on a silver plate. “ye' smell like fuckin’ paradise.”

“dinner’s—”

“this is dinner.”

and god—he wasn’t joking.

you barely had time to brace yourself on the edge of the stove before johnny had snapped the waistband of your pants down, and devoured you. there was no preamble. no polite easing in. he mouthed at you through your underwear, slow at first, then greedy. tongue hot and firm. groans low and constant, like the sounds were being dragged from his chest involuntarily.

worship. that’s what it was. not crude, not crass. just hungry. the kind of hungry that left your knees buckling and your lungs fluttering like dying birds as he made use of a calloused finger to ease the rest of the useless barrier aside. the kind that made your eyes squeeze shut, and your fingers clench the stove’s handle like it was an anchor.

“fuckin’ missed this,” he mumbled against you, fingers digging into your hips. “missed ye', hen. taste better than everythin’ else put together.” he wasn’t being sweet, not really. not flattering, not fishing for praise—he was starving. mouth open, tongue pressed flat and insistent, dragging a moan out of you that hit the kitchen tiles like thunder.

“johnny—”

his grip tightened, and he groaned, low in his chest, the sound vibrating into you. his beard was rough and hot against the softness of your thighs, and you swore the bastard smiled when your knees wobbled.

“aye,” he murmured, “tha’s it, swee'eart. let me hear ye'.”

he buried his face deeper, licking into you with long, deliberate strokes, like a man tasting the sea after months in the desert. like you were the thing he’d been denied, the indulgence kept just out of reach. every movement was greedy, slick and wet and personal, his nose nudging just right, his tongue circling with maddening patience. john was learning you again—re-mapping old territory, reverent and filthy all at once.

and all the while, you could feel it: the way his fingers flexed against your skin, thumbs stroking little bruising paths up your hips. the heat of his breath. the slow, groaning hum he gave every time you gasped. he was so gone for it—for you.

when your hand reached down to thread into his hair, he grumbled. grunted, like some beast stirred up from its den, wild-eyed and half out of his mind. he sucked a kiss right against your clit that made you see stars—whole constellations collapsing behind your eyes.

“fuck, johnny—”

“keep sayin’ mah name,” he whispered, voice thick, almost slurred with want. “sounds like ye’re prayin’.”

you weren’t praying. you were ascending.

the heat coiled low, sharp and unbearable, and he didn’t let up—not for a moment. no teasing, no mercy. mactavish knew what he was doing, knew how to pull you to the edge and tip you right over it. and when it finally hit—your body arching, your hips grinding helplessly against his mouth—he just held you through it, still licking, slow and savoring, like he was determined to taste every last drop.

only when your thighs trembled, slick and shaking, did he finally lift his head.

you glanced down, chest heaving. his mouth was glistening. his eyes dark. and that grin—

“still think i should wait for dinner, lass?”

[kc4y0s]

Brian/Hoodie Mood board & refs! ♡

[somnambuletta]

LOVEEEEEEE

[somnambuletta]

the devil couldn't reach me, so he gave me an inflamed taste bud.

[somnambuletta]

lesson in language

the tray clattered faintly when you set it down—stainless steel on enamel counter, the sound soft and clean like a bell underwater. jack’s silence loomed behind you, heavy and patient. he never rushed you during your rituals. it was the same every time: soap, rinse, sterilize, dry. you knew these instruments better than the backs of your own hands. you respected them like one might respect an altar.

he watched you, lately— not as a predator but as something hungrier—curious. his mask reflected the overhead surgical lamp, warping the light into sharp angles. “what’s that one?” he asked, voice gravel-warm. “the one you always handle like it bites.”

you turned, paused. the hemostat. curved, long-nosed, he liked when you used them to tease vessels out from the dark like worms from loam.

“hemostat,” you said simply.

“what for, lamb?”

“clamping. bleeders, mostly. arteries.” you didn’t look at him. you lined it neatly beside the others. “it's not sharp.. it just strangles.”

jack hummed, low in his chest. “strangles,” he repeated, like the word pleased him.

the eyeless being never touched the tools. that was your role— his lamb, his hands too desecrated, too clawlike to be delicate. you had always been content at the basin, elbows wet with sterilizing rinse, scrubbing under your fingernails while he did the butchering. but lately, he was changing. nudging at boundaries. wanting more from you than your hands. he wanted your knowing.

“tell me what they say,” he said, stepping closer.

you blinked at him, puzzled.

“the instruments,” he clarified, tilting his head, that lapis mask inches from yours now. “you listen to them when you clean them. i see it. they talk to you.”

“they don’t talk.”

“everything talks,” he rasped, “if you are wise enough to listen.”

that night, under his watching stillness, you walked him through each: the rongeurs with their bone-crushing jaws; the delicate iris scissors that snipped through fascia like silk; the scalpel handles—#3 for small, #4 for deep tissue. you even showed him the blades, still in their paper sleeves, labeling them by shape. ten. eleven. fifteen.

he never interrupted. he didn’t nod. he simply absorbed—like a sponge so soaked in blood it could only take more.

---

it was three nights later, when it happened.

you’d taken too long to choose a blade. you could admit that now. jack had waited with his hands inside the open cavity of a man whose name you hadn’t asked. when you handed him the scalpel, he paused.

“this is dull,” he said.

you had the sense to look down. “i know,” you murmured. “the tens were running low. i thought—”

“don’t think,” he cut in, not cruel. just firm. “we do not guess in the body, lamb.”

“i know.”

but your fingers trembled anyway.

jack turned from the body. he wiped the blade clean on gauze, slow and thoughtful. then he lifted his own arm and offered it to you, bare from elbow to wrist, skin ashen and mapped with old scars.

“try again,” he said.

your breath caught. “no–”

“you need to know what a dull blade feels like. the drag of it- how it snags. i will not let you do it to him. do it to me.”

you shook your head. “jack—”

but he had already taken your hand. guided the scalpel to his forearm with reverent care. you tried to resist. he held you still. not by force—but gravity. that strange, ancient pull he had over you. wolf, showing his throat to a lamb he was teaching to quell.

“go slow,” he whispered. “and listen.”

you made the incision. the blade bit, reluctant. it skipped, then caught. not smooth. you felt the way it tore at the epidermis unevenly, the resistance of dermis, the gliding over veins that twitched beneath your pressure. he bled warmly, like any man. but his breath didn’t hitch. he didn’t flinch.

“feel it?” he asked.

you nodded. your hand was shaking. “it pulls..”

“exactly.”

you pressed gauze to the wound with shaking fingers. his own hand covered yours.

“you’ll learn,” he said. “the body wants to give, but only if you ask it right.”

you couldn’t look at him. not then. not when your palms were slick with sweat, and the gauze beneath your fingers dampened with raspberry wine. not when you wanted to lean in and kiss the corner of his jaw where the mask ended and skin began.

jack’s voice dropped lower, velvet-wrapped steel.

“and there are many, many ways, for it to give..”

[somnambuletta]

glutton for abstinence

in slumber, jack traces apostolic warnings against your skin in the letters of forgotten alphabet.

he writes them just beneath your navel, where the sweat still beads like holy oil. symbols not meant for the clean or the saved. glyphs from tongues that spoke before language—before law—when gods still walked barefoot and bloody through the tall grass of olympus, when desire was a thing worshipped and feared.

you do not wake, but your body spares thoughts. still shaking from the storm he summoned inside you, not moments before. your thighs twitch as if recalling the parting of them. your stomach rises and falls in shallow cadence, a psalter cooed in broken breath.

his talons move slow, awed and devout. they draw lazy circles into the damp flesh of your belly, and though they could open you like scripture, they do not. they linger instead. teasing. tempting. a lion lying with a lamb and dreaming of hunger.

he curls his chest over your back, and you feel the tremble of his panting—like a furnace behind your spine. not the panting of exertion, no. that has passed.

such is the panting of restraint, and such is worse.

jack presses his face into your hair and inhales with the desperation of a dying priest. he smells you like a thing sanctified, like you're perfumed in frankincense and blood. the scent of your perspiration, your spent body, the sweetness of sleep still salted with sin—it drives him mad. jack buries himself in it, nose pushed deep into your strands, and whimpers. he whimpers.

you are heat and holiness, a lamb made unclean beneath his teeth.

and he kisses your neck again, trembling lips grazing the bruises he left there like a penitent revisiting his own blasphemy.

“echo,” jack whispers. the name drips down your skin like wax.

“galatea. my little hebe.” names of girl-gods built to please and perish. nymphs doomed to serve the love of louder gods, softer creatures devoured by the affections of titans. he chooses them carefully.

you stir, only faintly. a little sigh. a twist of your wrist against the sheets. and he stills—listening. watching. wanting.

even now, with your body wrung out and quiet, you are too much for him. you sleep like a sacrament desecrated in secret. jack watches like the devil at the tabernacle, hands trembling with need.

he tries to be good, but his chest bellows, rising and falling in staggered bursts against your spine. breath hot, frantic—dampening the back of your nape like how mothers lick the wet off their children. his mouth hovers open just above the bruises he’s already carved into your shoulder, teeth bared in approbation and regret; because he knows you’d taste of heaven if heaven were made of meat. and he can still taste you.

on the back of his tongue, copper-slick and warm. a ghost of what he took from you, what you gave him so freely—your body quivering, your voice caught somewhere between prayer and plea. it lingers in his mouth, sweet and obscene, and it kills him.

his tongue moves before his thoughts do. dragging along your shoulder. not to clean. not to kiss— but because jack must have.

and then his teeth follow. a little pressure. enough to feel the divot where his last mark still purples.

he groans—low, pained. almost pitiful.

he could. god, he could. it would be so fucking easy.

jack could peel you open like pomegranate fruit, sweet and gleaming inside. could split your ribs like dry wood and feast. he knows where your liver sleeps beneath the skin. he could reach it. he could tear it loose with nothing but hands and hunger and that slow, holy strength that haunts the cursed. he imagines it often: red meat steaming in his palms, slick and delicate as cow’s tongue.

and your heart—still fluttering like a bird even as he bites down.

but he doesn’t. he won’t.

because you are his lamb.

his soft thing. and though you smell divine—sweaty and wet and glowing with heat from the inside out—he cannot take you that way. not yet. not ever, if he can help it. the want claws at his ribs, gnashes behind his teeth. it begs to be loosed. but he presses his face deeper into your hair and moans instead, quiet and broken, the sound of a man damning himself with every breath.

he shudders, holding you tighter. worshipping through restraint.

the wolf does not bite the lamb— not because he is not hungry,

but because he has fallen in love with the sound of her heartbeat.

and though she sleeps beside him, offered, undone, he buries his face in her neck and does not feed.

because he would rather ache than lose her.

and oh, how jack aches.

[somnambuletta]

im the one who requested for the psyche and eros x könig and reader ! I just realized i barely left any details on how the plot works and might confuse u, u dont have to answer this or reply just some notes that u can base the fic on!

Like aphrodite did with Eros, sending him to hit Psyche with one of his arrows (basing this on the book retelling) that aphrodite had cursed. Eros fell in love with psyche himself entralled by her beauty: König sent to capture a random enemy to torture information out of, like Eros he was mesmerized, and also like Eros, ke kept himself invisible and hid Psyche from his mother. König tried to hide Reader and kept himself under the mask.

Im sorry if this is too much or demanding 😔 but i hope it helps u instead!!

hi anon! this is such a descriptive and wonderful ask. thank you so much for the idea ❤️ here is my take on your scenario!

there are men made for war, and men made for worship. könig was forged for both.

the chamber they placed you in was as bare as a monk’s cell— windowless, damp with the breath of stone, lit only by a single hanging bulb that swung gently, like a pendulum counting down the moment of your unmaking.

he entered like silence does, like winter, like the long shadow of something holy and harrowing.

they called you a traitor. a spy. an enemy asset to be stripped down and wrung dry.

könig was sent to find the truth inside you, no matter how deep it lay buried. torture was his trade. he’d broken men larger, crueler, holier.

but you were not what he expected.

you knelt, arms bound, eyes unafraid—like lamb gazing at the altar. you did not beg. you did not cry. and it undid him, somehow.

he reached for the hood over your face.

and when he lifted it, the veil of it falling like a curtain before a temple statue long forbidden— he beheld you.

and his breath caught.

not because you were beautiful in the way that mortals speak of beauty; but because you were divine in form and silence—a presence, a blessing of forgiveness, embodied in cartilage that only broken men like him could fathom to hold.

he had been told to break you.

but instead, in that terrible moment, könig fell in love.

they had whispered of you—those who worshipped war as though it were a god itself; kissing ares hands and the calloused heels of olympians.

they said your voice could unravel secrets. that you walked with quiet knowledge. that you had seen too much, and therefore, must not be allowed to speak.

so they gave the task to him.

to the one who never failed.

to the mask.

to könig.

he should have turned back— mindless of his own salacity. he should have called for the others.

but like eros, pierced by his own arrow; the austrian was enthralled.

so, he lied.

“no information,” he said aloud, voice flat through comms. “dead weight. will dispose.”

and then, he took you. not to the pit, nor the blade— but to a hidden room beneath the floor, behind two locked doors and an oath never spoken aloud.

there, he fed you. spoke little. kept himself hidden always, even in candlelight.

you never saw his face, and he never gave you a name.

days turned as slow and golden as honey dripping down stone— nectar a titan such only chronos could enjoy. you asked him, once, in a voice so raw it belied the sleekness of your skin:

“why do you keep me here?”

könig didn’t answer. he couldn’t. because how could he say:

“because the gods sent me to kill you, but the moment i saw you, i knew you were sacred. and i am a sinful thing.” (?)

so he kept the mask.

kept his name hidden like a relic too dangerous to touch.

he brought you books. he brought you silence. he watched you when you slept.

and though könig was forged for bloodshed, his hands trembled with reverence when they neared you, as though every inch of you was carved from ecclesiastical marble.

but, as in all myths, peace is never eternal.

there are whispers in the upper halls. the warriors grow suspicious. the ones who crowned themselves on battlefield and ash—your captor’s 'crew', in spirit if not in flesh. they are wrathful, radiant, proud.

and he knows what will come.

he knows the day will come when they drag you from this sanctuary. when you will see his face not as a savior but a deceiver.

when the veil will be lifted, not by tenderness, but by divulgence.

still, könig lingers in the doorway now, watching your eyes close beneath lamplight.

he was made for war. he was made for worship.

but never for love.

and yet—here he stands, a god beneath a mask. a man beneath a sin.

holding a secret he knows will ruin him. but he cannot stop.

[somnambuletta]

guys i just really like david hesh walker

[somnambuletta]

Hi Somna! Your writing seems to improve by the day and it is just so lovely to read. If I could put in a request for a John Price, or maybe another Eyeless Jack short, I would absolutely love to read more of them. Maybe something inspired off Greek Mythology again? I would really love to see how you would portray him as Asclepius- because it's an almost ironic contrast and the way you write about myth is just so *mwah*.

Again, love your content and I check everyday to see if you've put out more works. Please keep it up <3

hi anon! what a gift to hear from you 😊. absolutely i can cover this request; and thank you so much for the kind words.

﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊﹊

the room was kept cold, not by any electrical will of man, but by the very sanctity of steel. things rot slower in the cold— and jack preferred it that way. his sanctum smelled of iodine and things worse than sin—gristle and vinegar, cracked-open ribs and bleach in holy quantities.

he had always said god was in the details. that was before he lost his eyes, and before the gods stopped speaking.

jack taught with his hands. the lamb, his lamb, learned by the same method. your fingers bore the mark of ritual now—blistered in the crooks, calloused at the tips, always trembling with purpose. you were careful, slow. you cleaned his tools like one would clean relics from a fallen altar.

"not too much pressure, lamb. steel does not like to be bruised."

you said nothing. you never did at first. the silence was consecrated.

outside, rain scratched at the old windows like guilt. inside, there was only the soft scrape of cloth over scalpel.

you did not know when it began—this need in you to stay. you were not kept. you were not caged. you followed. you watched. you folded gauze and prayed under your breath.

not for the people brought in— for him.

once, during the fourth night without sleep, you dared to ask.

"you have the complex of asclepius," you said, eyes low, voice lower.

he had been drying a rib-spreader then. he stopped. the cloth in his hand stilled like a held breath.

he turned to you, not quickly. jack never moved like a man. he moved like something that used to be one.

"no, lamb. not quite."

you had looked up at him then, and for a second, you swore he could see you. that beneath the cloth and the hollowed sockets, some divine mechanism was watching.

"asclepius was loved," he continued. "the dead wanted to return to him. they whispered to his hands and begged for the favor."

he set the tool down gently, reverently, like it had been born.

"but i am not loved."

you opened your mouth. closed it. what was there to say? he taught you how to cut. but not how to speak.

he stepped toward you, the floor whispering beneath his weight.

"asclepius healed the body. i only... unmake the wound. and that, my little lamb, is something altogether more honest."

his hand lifted, hovering just above your cheek. he could not touch you, not in full. to do so would be to stain you.

"you pray for me, don’t you?"

you nodded.

"why?"

"because you’re closest to god when you’re breaking what he made."

he smiled then. not with mouth. not with anything you could name. but it curled the air, bent the light.

"you will be better than i am."

"no. i’ll just love you more."

he turned back to the table. the next patient was already growing stiff, but there was no rush. death waited politely in these halls.

and his lamb cleaned the bone saw as if it were communion.

[somnambuletta]

I LOVE UR ACC... i swear marble hornets n greek myth r my hyperfixation.. and DAMN BOTH COMBINED..? fuck me. I hope to see more of ur works in the future !!

HI ANON! so happy to hear this ❤️ looking forward to putting out more works in the near future 🥰 thank you so much for the kind words