somnambuletta

[somnambuletta]

hi tumblr! ❤️ so, here's the situation: i don't know what to write. the prior-university writers block is kicking in, and i dearly could use a helping hand getting content out, with some guided ideas 💡

that’s where you come in.

requests are officially open! 🎉 whether it’s call of duty, marble hornets, or creepypasta related— i am casting a wide net. got a scene, a trope, a character dynamic you’ve been considering? send it my way. a girl simply does not know what to put out into the world right now, and my hands are too full of untapped potential and too empty of inspiration.

drop something in my ask box, please. i am self-strangling my skills right now

[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

[somnambuletta]

like sisyphus

there is a kind of silence that lives only at the edge of old fields— one that settles after the last light has burned off the rust of wheat after the birds have gone to ground. it is not quiet, but it feels quiet, and that distinction has mattered to simon riley ever since he learned the difference between peace and stillness.

the house is modest. it creaks when it cools. the floorboards complain like aging knees, and the windows catch the wind in their teeth. but it stands. and so does he. every night, he washes the plates and listens to the kettle scream like the ones in the barracks used to. you had chosen the color of the curtains. yellow like yolk– like spring. you said it reminded you of sunlight bottled for hard days.

he lives here now if one can call it that—this shape of a man folded into domesticity. he chops wood, and he feeds the dog. he makes the bed even when he doesn’t sleep in it.

simon has never been a man of myth, but you were. you spoke of gods like you knew them—thread-spinners, ocean-bearers, fire-stealers— and once— just once, you called him sisyphus. it was after he’d come back bloodied from a dream fists clenched and breath jagged.

"you’re always pushing the same thing uphill," you’d said touching his shoulder. "always rolling the war away only for it to come back down in your sleep."

he hadn’t answered then. what could he say. that he didn’t know how to stop. that the boulder was his brother, his bone, his bed.

tonight, the sun sinks low— sinks like a weary man into a cold tub. the fields outside are stretched flat and tired, a canvas of gold gone gray. simon walks the edge of the yard barefoot the grass brittle beneath his heels. there is a shovel in his hand, an old one. the kind with a splintered handle and rust along the lip.

in the back lot near the overgrown mulberry tree, simon digs.

the ground is hard this time of year—baked clay beneath the topsoil. he works slowly methodically as though he's digging through time itself. each scoop unearths a memory: the sting of cordite, the copper of blood, a child’s scream swallowed by dust. and then, at last, from a shallow canvas bag tucked beneath loose bricks in the shed, he pulls it free.

the mask.

a piece of death made wearable. hollow-eyed, soot-stained, still bearing the scent of fire and rot. it had sat under the bed for years like a dog waiting to be called again.

simon holds it like a relic. like a sin, and stares.

then, he kneels. the dusk wraps itself around his shoulders like an old shawl and the earth breathes in as he presses the mask into the dirt. he covers it carefully. evenly. not a ritual, nor funeral. just a man putting away a tool that no longer fits his hand.

the shovel rests beside the tree. the soil bears no sign of what it holds.

he goes back inside.

you are sleeping in the bed with one arm tucked beneath the pillow and your hair curled like a tide at the nape of your neck. the curtains sway in the open window, catching a breath of lavender and dust. the dog thumps its tail once at the footboard then settles again.

simon doesn’t speak. doesn’t turn on the light.

he climbs in behind you slow so the mattress doesn’t wake you, and lays a hand on your waist like a sailor testing land after years at sea.

he presses his mouth to the back of your neck— soft and lingering, and then rests his forehead there for a long moment as though in prayer.

the wind shifts and the house creaks and the war stays buried in the back yard.

tonight, at least.

tonight, he is not rolling the boulder.

[somnambuletta]

guys, i gotta get back on my grind 😞

[somnambuletta]

beneath red clay

brian/hoodie x forensic anthropologist reader

synopsis: a forensic anthropologist arrives in rural tuscaloosa to investigate the disappearance of a deputy. the site yields the charred remains of his body.

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chapter one: gehenna

you drive into tuscaloosa on mcfarland boulevard, the asphalt melting into red clay shoulders that cling to your tires like tethers. the world here is folded between the bleached ridges of the cumberland plateau and the vast wet breathing of the gulf coastal plain—oxbow meadows, swamp-laced bottomlands, and hardwood groves that hum with insects. to your left, where the black warrior river winds through the fall-line hills, cattails tremble in hidden reflexes and willows lean as if listening for something in the damp.

you inhale the steam of early summer, hot as molasses, sweet and heavy with pollen. there are pockets of limestone bluff and chalky clay outcrops here and there—white veins in the soil, remnants of ancient riverbeds resting atop the red world. it is something you feel the richness underfoot: a dense black soil overlade by brittle clay crust, cracking in hexagons like dried skin; underneath, it’s sticky, demanding, slowing the steps of who dares walk upon it. the air tastes of iron and rot and the slow decay of wetwood. overhead, strands of spanish moss drape from water oak branches—veils of greenish-gray that sway like silent curtains in a breeze you barely feel. ground spiders weave lace in the moisture, dew clinging to their webs before the sun hesitates. cicadas lie low in the tall grass, their lazy rasp the only heartbeat until, suddenly, it isn’t.

on either side of the road, the land flattens into river-bottom hardwood forest—sweetgum, black gum, and cottonwood crowd into swales, their roots soaked full in wet summers, their feet dust-choked in dry ones. they hold the land steady, but the river below can’t be held still. some years, when hurricanes roll off the gulf, the black warrior overflows, swallowing fence-rows and logging roads, washing away cattle sheds and leaving pale clapboard squares behind.

once, barges bore coal and steel downriver toward mobile; today, the river collects all the whispered histories—of native earthworks like moundville and the muffled clang of industry—carrying them past your window in soft murkiness.

there is something about river silt and human blood that makes them cousins- both slow to vanish, both prone to stain. the land remembers, and when it does- it calls people back in strange ways.

the road narrows, and you follow it.

there is a ribbon of scorched earth now, just off the main path, where tire tracks once furrowed down toward a tree line that no longer stands as it once did. the woods have been singed back, not in wide, wrathful sweeps- but in lopsided tongues- patchy, blackened brush, a half-melted fencepost leaning like a broken rib, saplings scorched to the quick but left standing. the fire didn't rage, but it had consumed with a patience- creeping up bark and into rafters, deciding what to leave behind, and what to eat.

you smell it before you see it- charcoal and wet ash and the sour sting of plastic gone brittle from heat. the air tastes wrong- and beneath it, a copper tang rides the wind. its a scent you have no name for- but your body understands. you slow, and the cruiser idles low. the road out here- in no man's land, is unpaved, and your tires roll over gravel like bones in a pan, the sound small but surgical. up ahead, two sherrif's vehicles sit together, angled in the weeds like beasts set out to pasture, one's door hangs open like a wounded limb. the other is closed and empty, the radio antenna still quivering from some earlier movement.

and past that- half swallowed by soot-black ferns and dried palmetto fronds- is the deputy's car.

it's been there longer than these guys have- if one thing were to be for certain. dust and ash have caked over the windshield in a film of grey paste, cracked like dry paint. the roof's emergency bar has melted inward in a soft droop, like wax weeping off a candle. something about it feels ritualistic- though you don't know why. it's the placement, maybe. the way it was left so perfectly, centered between the treeline and a half-burnt clearing, on watch-out for something greater than itself, met half-way with intentions unknown.

you glance at the photos in hand- teeth gripping lightly against the soft flesh of your inner gum, analytical.

the ground nearby still holds the outline of the fire's reach- an uneven ring of calcine grass, inside which the earth looks churned, bruised. something once stood there. something that burned.

and there, near the center of it all- resting on what used to be a porch step, or, maybe just a stone that held meaning to someone once- there are the remains.

the fire did not take everything. it took most- but not all. you can see the blackened curve of femur through melted fabric. the skull has split at the crown like an overripe peach, forced apart by something heavier than flame. the jaw is half gone, teeth still clinging in rows like kernels encased on a out-seasoned cob. no fingers. one boot remains. the air is still around the body. the birds, even the insects, have gone away from here. the forest backs off in respectful hush.

a pair of voices meets the silence. "well," comes one, low and syrup-dragged, "so she comes."

you look away from the images, and turn to see them- the two men in tan uniform, boots still ash-dusted. one leans with his hip against the front bumper of the cruiser, arms folded. he looks like someone who grew from the soil, not.. born- but rooted. the other's younger, thinner, fiddling with a pack of chewing gum he hadn't seemed to of opened.

"you're the one they sent?" the older asks, and it's not in challenge. just a fact weighed out, like meat on a scale. eminent of the six-hundred, seventy something grams that what is left of his co-worker must weigh.

you nod. you're not dressed for it- your coat too new, your shoes too clean- but you know how to look. you step forward, taking the inquiry as invitation. "only one of 'em", you say.

the deputy with gum squints towards the wreckage.

"didn't expect them to send a doctor", he mutters. "thought maybe they'd send somethin' more.. official."

you crouch beside the edge of the burn, near a place where a patch of green grass has begun to sprout. it's soft beneath your fingers. too soft. the ash has sunk in, made the soil thick and unbreathable.

"what was the report?" you ask, not looking up.

"fire call," the older one answers. "was late. maybe three nights ago. someone thought it was a group of youngin's either trashin' the place, or having a bonfire."

you turn to him. he gestures with a nod to the skeletal remains of the structure.

"didn't take long to ID. he was one of ours. deputy casey dean. been missin' two or so days prior. car's his. uniform, what's left of it. badge too."

"any idea what happened?"

he shakes his head, jaw tight. "nothing clear. he didn't radio. no sign of a struggle, 'cept.." he flicks his eyes toward the crippling stilts again, then away. "that. whatever hit him didn't give him a second try."

you look at the vehicle again. the position. the charring, the faint track marks that led, assumingly, to nowhere.

"and you can confirm that no one has touched the remains? no tampering, no one else on site?"

"no one since we've been out," the younger one offers his portion of a lead, voice quieter now- less intrusive, more drawn-in.

the older man cuts a glance towards the trees. "you believe in signs, doc?"

"not the kind that talk back", you say.

he nods again, this time slower, as if you've answered correctly. then, he sighs. "well. you best take a look, then. before the light changes."

the sun is falling behind the canopy now, and the shadows grow longer. you step past the seared ring, one boot into the black. the forest whispers behind you, bystander to whom dare enter the circle of death. somewhere ahead, past the smoldered outskirts, there waits a barn. not yet see, not yet known.

but it is there.

[somnambuletta]

tangles and tactics

the bathroom is a battlefield.

not the bloody kind— not the kind he’s trained for. no, this one's got washable crayon streaked across the counter, a barbie face-down in the sink, and a rogue hairbrush that might actually be sentient at this point. simon riley, ghost, walking nightmare of a man with arms like reinforced scaffolding and a stare that’s made enemies piss themselves, is currently… very gently trying to detangle a knot the size of a small rodent out of his daughter's curls.

she’s sitting on the counter, knees pulled up, towel around her neck like a superhero cape, legs kicking the cabinet rhythmically with each second that passes. he swears it’s a timer.

“you’re pulling,” she says matter-of-factly, watching him in the mirror like a tiny manager. “don’t pull.”

“-’m not pulling,” he grunts. tug. “it’s… resistant.”

“you need the detangler spray.” she says it like it’s obvious. because it is. because of course it is. because she is five and already knows more about long hair than a man who’s shaved his head for over a decade.

simon exhales through his nose. mutters something about how “this never happens on the field” and “why are these elastics so bloody small,” but he reaches for the little pink spray bottle anyway. it’s got a unicorn on it. the unicorn is winking at him.

he spritzes. gently combs.

“tighter,” she says when he starts to braid. “no bumps.”

“-’m tryin', sweetheart, but your hair’s got a mind of 's own.”

“you’ve got big hands.” ... “you’ve got a big mouth.”

she gasps, scandalized. “daddy!”

he smirks. there it is—that little giggle, pure and bell-bright, and it just melts him. every time. it knocks him out more than any explosive ever could. he could be elbows-deep in glittery bathwater, or sitting cross-legged at a tea party with a tutu on over his joggers, and it’d still be the easiest mission he’s ever signed up for. because it’s her.

because when he finally wrangles the braids into something that kinda resembles what he’s seen on youtube— she turns her head side to side in the mirror, inspecting them with the seriousness of a field commander.

“they’re…” she squints. “okay.”

“only okay?” he lifts a brow.

she spins on the counter and throws her arms around his neck, towel and all. “they’re my favorite.”

simon freezes. then wraps her up like she’s the most fragile thing in the world, presses his nose into her curls, and murmurs, “mine too, baby. mine too.”

[somnambuletta]

may I just say. as a small writer myself-- you are incredible. you deserve far more recognition for your work than ever before. your work is nothing short of amazing and you are one of the people I look up to whenever I write.

hi anon 🥹 this is the sweetest thing ever, and it makes me feel so incredibly happy, and proud to hear that i am one of the people you look up to in your craft. i would absolutely love to read some of your works, so if you would appreciate me doing so, please don't feel shy to shoot me a message so i can follow you ❤️

[somnambuletta]

You have a southern goth feeling to your writing that I adore omg

hi anon, i'm glad you adore my writing as much as i love hearing from you! 😭❤️ thank you so much, this comment just made my week. ❤️ my writing is definitely inspired and based off southern goth, and it's a stylistic choice i would love to (and will!) explore more. definitely considering publishing a story that follows that basis, and may not already be working on one?? 🤫

[somnambuletta]

30 min warmup doodle

[somnambuletta]

tea party gone tactical

aka: simon riley, code name: daddy

there’s glitter in the creases of his knuckles. plastic rings on every finger, tea stains on his jeans, and a tiara— pink, crooked— sitting proud atop his buzzed hair. simon riley, six-foot-something slab of elite military steel, has just been declared princess cupcake the third, ruler of the sugar kingdom. and he has orders to attend high tea at precisely four o’clock sharp.

he obliges. obviously.

the living room has been transformed into chaos of the most devastating kind—childhood imagination. there’s a tablecloth made from an old baby blanket, plastic saucers balanced on top of hardcover books, plushies seated like dignitaries from rival kingdoms. one has an eyepatch. another wears his sock. a stuffed unicorn has a crayon drawn scar and a tactical vest made of paper.

across from him, on her little purple beanbag throne, his daughter beams. two missing teeth. a feather boa dragging on the floor. she pours lukewarm apple juice into tiny cups, careful, careful, tongue poking out in concentration. simon watches like it’s a mission briefing. she finishes with a flourish.

“sir cupcake, would you like sugar?” she says, all posh and prim and nearly squeaking with excitement.

he nods solemnly. “two lumps. gotta keep my energy up.”

she plunks invisible sugar into his cup with a spoon the size of her hand. simon pretends to sip. “delicious,” he says, setting the cup down with exaggerated grace. “might be the best cuppa i’ve ever had, actually.”

“better than mummy’s?” she asks, eyes wide, clearly testing boundaries.

he leans in, whispers behind one big, calloused hand, “don’t tell 'er, but yeah. loads better.” she giggles—full, bubbly, from-the-gut giggles—and his heart pulls like a parachute cord mid-fall. she moves on to the cupcakes—half crumbled fairy cakes from the corner bakery you brought home last night, now decorated with more sprinkles than frosting. she smashes one into a napkin, offering it like a truce treaty.

“thank you, commander sprinkle,” he says, accepting the mashed sugar bomb and taking a heroic bite.

“you’re welcome,” she says, eyes shining. “you’re the bravest daddy in the kingdom!”

something warm knots in his chest. not the cupcake— he could take five more of those—but the way she looks at him, like he built the sky with his hands and tucks the stars in at night.

simon clears his throat, glances down at his ring-bedazzled fingers, the glitter on his arms, the juice in his lap. “…i'd go to war for you, y’know.”

she nods solemnly, not entirely sure what that means—but knowing it’s important.

then she picks up her pink plastic walkie-talkie and presses the button. “monster in the hallway. repeat, monster in the hallway! might be mummy coming to check if we ruined the carpet..”

simon stands, dramatically brushing invisible crumbs off his lap. he adjusts his tiara. lifts his plush unicorn with military precision. “on it, commander.”

and then, he charges out of the room, bare feet thudding against the floor, in search of the ‘monster’—glitter trailing behind him like smoke from a flare.

[somnambuletta]

hoodie - brian headcannons

(because i yearn for a man who is a.) not real, and is b.) cruel,) + minor mdni implications 🔞

i. brian has never raised his voice at you- and yet, the world quakes in his wake. there is a tenderness in the way he kneels before you, pressing his lips to the back of your hand like a knight bent to his sworn lady. he is a thing of patience, a quiet storm, a wolf that does not bare its teeth unless provoked. and when he is provoked—oh, how the heavens weep.

“my sweet girl,” he murmurs, voice thick as honey, slow as a southern summer. “d’you know what i’ve done for you?”

the answer lies in the bones buried beneath your feet, twisted earth dirtying fresh shoes. “if i could tear the whole world apart for you,” he breathes, dragging his lips along your knuckles, “i would.”

i.ii. brian kills because he has to. hoodie kills because he wants to. brian's hands are steady, efficient. hoodie’s hands linger—dig in, snap, and break. hoodie doesn’t just get rid of threats—he makes an example of them. if someone dares to insult you, he makes sure their tongue never works (right) again. he leaves bodies behind like shitty censure. doesn’t bother with discretion like brian does. if someone crosses you, he wants them to be found. wants the world to see.

•sometimes he kills over things you don’t even notice. a wrong glance, a murmured insult—things brian might let slide, but hoodie? oh, hoodie is taking their fucking teeth. he is your bonekeeper. brian just deals with it.

ii. you are a thing he does not deserve, but you are a thing he cannot live without. the first time hoodie touched you, it was not with love, but with hunger. his hands gripped your waist as if he could break you apart, press you into the fabric of his coat and stitch you there, keep you pressed against his ribs where his heart once beat.

“you think i don’t know?” he breathes, laughter curling in his throat, cruel and sharp. his fingers dig into your skin, pressing, demanding. you were made for this. made for him. “you like this,” he whispers, knows it, drinks in the way you tremble beneath him. “you like it when i take.”

and he does.

iii. he loves it when you whisper his name like it is something holy. and perhaps it is. brian does not believe in god. but if he did, he would believe in you.

he would kneel at your altar, mouth at your feet, hands shaking as he prays. for you. for the softness of your touch, for the mercy of your love, for the gift of your breath. and when he presses his lips to yours, slow and aching, it is not a kiss—it is a vow. for better or worse. in sickness and in health. in blood, in bone, in eternity.

"my lady," he murmurs against your lips, voice breaking, devotion etched into every syllable. "my darlin'. my love.."

iv. hoodie is not kind. but with you, he almost is.

"you're lucky i like you," he murmurs, dragging his fingers along your ribs, counting them like beads on a rosary.

his breath is hot against your ear, his lips ghosting over your pulse. he could tear you apart. he could ruin you. he could do worse. but he doesn't. he presses a lingering kiss to your throat. "don’t make me prove it, sweetheart."

v. the sleeves swallow your hands. brian (hoodie) likes that. reminds him he's something bigger, stronger. "you know that’s mine, don’t you?" his voice is quiet, warm, curling around you like the fabric itself. he watches as you roll up the sleeves—his sleeves. you glance up at him, half-smiling. "yeah?".. "yeah."

his fingers skim your wrist, tracing the edge of the jacket—his jacket. his hands are big, rough with scars, but so gentle as they tug the sleeve down over your hand again. "you look better in it, though," he murmurs, his voice low, soft, reverent. you swear you see the faintest smile when you wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest.

vi. reflecting: brian doesn't believe in god, but sometimes, when he looks down at the cross around his neck, he cant help but feel like its the last thing that connects him to a world that isn't full of blood and fear. the church will never be his answer- but he believes you were sent to him. and that is the closest thing to salvation he knows.

vi.ii hoodie doesn't care about the cross. not really. but when he wears it, it becomes something beyond a piece of jewelry- it's a challenge. a mockery of anything holy. the fact it swings around his neck when he's sunk into you, and he's got your face in the pillow? sinful enough to get him stiff for another round.

• the cross presses against your back as he holds you in a grip that makes your pulse race. lips, curled into a mischievous grin as he gets his fingers nice, and comfortably nestled against your scalp. "you feel that? god's watchin', baby.. don't know if he's pleased with me, but i'm sure as hell havin' fun."

vii. he does not ask- brian insists. a quiet, unshakable thing, like the tide knowing its pull, like the sun knowing its rise. if you reach for the door before he does he's already there- undoing your mistake.

"try that again, sweetheart." his voice is soft- teasing, but there isn't much room for argument. it's his devotion- his way of telling you, you are worth more than rushing hands and thoughtless exits

viii. hoodie does not take off his mask. if brian removes his hood around you, hoodie does not. you will never see his face, not fully, not unless he lets you. the mask is his skin. it is what allows him to move through the world unburdened by conscience, by identity (by the fragile remnants of brian’s past life.)

-> there is something horribly intimate about the fact that when he is hoodie, he is more real than brian has ever been.

xi. brian is the type of man to undoubtedly shove his hold hands up your shirt to warm them up- and he does it every time- without fail, without mercy. the chill clings to him like a second skin, his fingers stiff and aching from the cold. and you should know better than to let your guard down. but he's patient- and he waits until the moment you are relaxed to do it, like an asshole. the shriek you let out is enough to make him grin- a big wolfish smile that is shameless as you flail against him. he's laughing, burying his face into your shoulder, breath warm against your skin while his hands remain quite literally frozen in place.

"aww, c'mon now, darlin'." he drawls, arms locked around you to keep you from escaping, "s' just a lil' cold. you want me to freeze?"

[somnambuletta]

kept things

simon doesn’t say much when you give it to him.

a keychain—black leather, small and clean, thread etched patterns standing out like dna strands, meant to be there. it’s a simple thing, barely bigger than a thumb, stitched tight along the edges, soft from your hands. you don’t give it with fanfare— just place it in his palm, close his fingers around it.

“for your spare,” you say.

and that’s all.

he tucks it into his jacket without a word, but you catch the flicker of something in his eyes. quiet. focused. like he’s memorizing the (miniscule, and yet significant) weight of it. the idea of it. you.

the bracelet came before that.

black cord, woven thick with your fingers, made to look like something he’d actually wear— nothing glittery, nothing loud. but in the center, tied flush and seamless, your initials. his and yours. subtle, like a secret. simon hasn’t taken it off since.

it frays a little now— small threads poking from the edge, softened from showers, from wear, from living. sometimes, you see simon rub his thumb over it when he’s thinking, or when he's quiet, head down, sitting on the edge of your bed as the sun breaks in soft through the blinds. he never tugs at it like it's something in the way. the lieutenant never hides it. he just... adjusts it, now and then. tightens the knot when it slips.

like keeping it snug keeps you close.

when it finally starts to unravel, one side curling just enough to catch his glove, he comes to you with it. doesn’t say much—doesn’t have to.

just stands in the doorway, hulking and patient, holding out his wrist like it’s something fragile. like he’d rather wear it broken than not at all. “can you fix it? ”

that voice, rough and low, carrying more weight than he knows how to say. and you nod. you don’t tease. don’t call it sweet. you just take his hand and start retying the strands. tight again. secure again.

yours, again. simon doesn’t pull away when you kiss the inside of his wrist.

and later, when he clips your keychain onto the spare he keeps tucked safe in his gear bag, you catch the way he touches it once before letting it drop. a quiet moment, all his own.

kept things.

not loud, not grand. just the kind he never lets go of.

[somnambuletta]

do you think when the ghosts are on missions, and they are rushing keegan to finish going to the bathroom; it's 'keegan pee, rush.' (?)

[somnambuletta]

[somnambuletta]

Does a dog gnaw at its bone?

{Why yes! Here is a list of Brian/Hoodie Head cannons♡ ...PS I'm very rusty so just hang in there luvs}

Hoodie

i. Holding your shoulder against some ancient oak tree, close enough to study, poke and prod behind a quivering lip. To soak up every ounce of adrenaline that ran through your bloodied up fingernails and- all the way down to your legs which shook beneath you, trembling from your previous game of cat and mouse; he smelled of a dangerous mix between pine, campfire smoke, and gunpowder. The kind of mixture which held nostalgia in each note-

He lingered just below your nose even after he up and left, silently, calmly, slinking in between each branch or shrub.

ii. He doesn't talk, its rare when he does. not that he cannot or doesn't want to. He enjoys watching you squirm beneath his blank gaze, mask on or off. Humming and motioning with his hands, commanding you that way. Because he knows you'll follow along, every ,..single time. like clockwork, like dog Hearding cattle.

Bonus points if you tease him, a whine or a complaint from you will only land you a deep, breathy chuckle, a tsk here and there. He'll sit and watch you from a distance, dragging tired purple circles up and down your little figure. When he needs you, wants you, won’t call, won't ask. Simply lifting a figure, bending it in a quick motion to summon you. Even better. If he’s really had enough of your little huffs or whines. He’ll pat his knee, summoning you like he would an animal, a pet. Once you get close enough, hell slide his gloved hand under your shirt watching you shiver against cold leather, pulling you in roughly by the waist still, even once he’s got you sat obediently on his thigh, he’s leaning in, simply breathing and humming against your neck...

iii. Brian, however. He's not afraid to speak up, pipe in, during moments where you've gotten all flustered, beaten up by whatever it is that you're trying to convey. He's patient, oh how patient he is with you. Staring down at you softly, hands dug into washed out denim as he picks you apart, peeling away at your brain like some citrus fruit.

[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]

pierce the veil and brian thomas was not a combination that i knew i needed. what a blessed morning

(guysss ptv tour ❤️ may 28th 😻)

oh. that's gore. that's gore of my comfort character. /ref