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bluejayblueskies · 2 years

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pov you're an arkham taxi driver

Rating: Teen and Up Category: Gen

Characters: Original Characters, John, Arthur Additional Tags: Outsider POV, Alternative Perspective, Second Person POV, Some Humor, (a bit tongue-in-cheek)

CW: ableist language, cults, and mentions of violence/murder

Read on AO3

The man who climbs into the back of your cab looks just like any other man living in Arkham. That isn’t saying much, of course, given that they all look like any other person until the shit hits the fan, but there truly is no way to tell. That said, when the man begins muttering to himself, you’re not surprised in the least. You’ve been doing this job for far too long, and you’ve seen far worse.

(Some things do not wash out of upholstery, which is a fact that you’ve come to know quite intimately. You have a strict no-fluids policy now, which you think is perfectly fair and reasonable of you. The horrors can go ooze all over the back of somebody else’s taxi, thank you very much.)

“What is this Dark World?” the man says. His voice is hushed but not hushed enough, like he thinks that just because you’re up here and he’s back there, you can’t hear him. Why do they always think that? “Wh-what does it look like? I…”

He stops, clearly listening to something that only he can hear. You watch him in the rearview mirror as you drive through the streets of Arkham. You know these roads like the back of your hand, and you know the people who walk them just as well. You recognize the quietly horrified expression that flashes across his face, there and gone like it had never been.

You’ve reached his stop. Normally, you might take the long way ‘round, stretch out the ride for some extra cash, because things are hard out there right now and you’ve got a family to feed. But there’s no point. This guy is so far inside his own head (literally? You don’t know how these things work) that he barely blinks when you tack on the extra dollar fee.

Look, it’s just good business practice. Somebody brings a whole host of weird spooky shit into your cab, they gotta pay for it. Like a convenience fee. It’s not like every other taxi driver in this godforsaken city doesn’t do it.

The man leaves the cab, still muttering to himself, dropping the coins absently in your outstretched hand as he goes. He even says, “Thank you,” which is more than you get half of the time. You twist in your seat to check, and—nope. No mysterious packages, no odd stains, no lingering smells. Not even a shiver down the back of your neck.

All in all, a perfectly pleasant interaction. You almost feel bad about the surcharge.

(Almost.)

Your taxi still smells faintly of smoked meat when you pick up the man who talks to himself. You’ve been doing this long enough now that you can identify one of these types of people pretty much on sight—the ones involved with things they ought not to be involved with. Still, given that your last passenger—decidedly mundane—thought it appropriate to eat in the back of your taxi and subsequently saturate it with foodsmell for the next few hours at least, you’re more inclined than usual to turn a blind eye to whatever’s currently happening in your backseat.

… That doesn’t mean you can’t eavesdrop, though.

That’s the thing, see—they never assume that you’re listening. It’s possible they do and they just don’t care, but after the third time somebody openly discussed murder in front of you on the way to their destination, you’ve come to the conclusion that your presence is negligible to them.

Well, that’s just fine. Preferable, even. The last thing you want is for any of these people to think that you pose a threat to them. You’d much prefer that your limbs stay attached to your body and at all the right angles.

Anyway. The man is a detective, you think. There are also plenty of those in Arkham, which makes sense; more supernatural criminals necessitate more people to stop them who aren’t afraid of a bit of spook. He mentions a symbol in an old house—his destination, you assume, not far at all from the bookstore—but the way he phrases it, it’s … like he’s talking to somebody else.

… Probably best not to ask. If a man hears voices in his head and deigns to talk to them in public, well—that’s his own business.

“I always valued my sight, obviously,” the man says after a moment, “as much as one can. But it’s quite a different thing to lose it altogether one day.”

He continues, but you’re not listening anymore. Instead, you’re looking back and forth between the road in front of you and the man’s reflection in your rearview mirror, eyebrows raised.

He’s blind? Funny, he doesn’t look it. His eyes dart around, taking in the interior of the cab, the scenery outside the window, focusing on specific things. If you squint, though, you think you can see the faintest yellow shine around his irises, like that of the stray cats that scurry across the road in front of your taxi when you have the night shift.

You don’t have time to think about it any longer, though, because you’ve reached the house. It looks just like any other house, but they all do on the surface. The evil lies deeper, uncovered only if you’re not smart enough to keep your nose where it belongs.

You’re smart enough. This man evidently is not.

Pity. He seems nice enough—gives you nearly twice the required fare, thanks you, doesn’t leave any smells behind as he departs. (Christ, the bar is low, isn’t it.)

The man walks inside the house, almost certainly to his own detriment, and you drive away. You don’t expect you’ll be seeing him again any time soon.

“Alright, well—I’m all ears. Tell me.”

You almost respond before you glance in the mirror and see that the man in the back of your taxi isn’t looking at you. He cocks his head slightly, as if … listening to something?

Then, he says, “So you think this religious sect had opened a gateway?” and you have to fight back a sigh.

It fucking figures that you’d be transporting another goddamned cultist. Or at least somebody involved with them. It’s been a week or so since you picked one up, and apparently, the universe has decided to mock you for your belief that maybe you wouldn’t have to do so again.

You hate driving cultists. Sometimes you can tell just by looking at them if they’re involved in all that bullshit, but most of the time, you have no idea until they’re ruining your entire day. You know what all the other taxi drivers say—charge more, mind your business, and you’ll be fine—and you listen, of course. The extra money is nice—means you can actually put food on the table for your kids—and not being dead is also a significant perk.

But you see, that’s the issue. You drive a taxi; this should not be a life-or-death situation kind of job.

You sneak another glance at the man in your backseat.

He looks a bit frazzled. “Yes, um, well…” He trails off, then recenters himself. “Uh, this beckons the question once again—who are you to have a religious cult open a gateway to another world just to bring you through?”

What the fuck?

“I continually brush off the very real and serious concern that you may be something more sinister, and you seem quite okay with that. I don’t know exactly what you are—”

What the fuck? Who the fuck is this guy?

You take your eyes off the road, just for a moment, to do a full sweep of your car. There’s nobody else here—just you and this unassuming man in a suit and tie who you’re now certain is either very mad or very, very cursed. You really hope it’s the former, but given all the other things that have crawled into the back of your cab (in some cases literally), you’re not optimistic.

Fucking hell.

… At least he’s not covered in blood.

You drop the man on the doorstep of Miskatonic University and drive off as quickly as you can. There. He and his cryptic mutterings are somebody else’s problem now.

Christ. You wish the economy weren’t in shambles. You could really use a new career.

You’ve been doing this job for a long time, so you don’t bat an eye when the guy in the back of your taxi starts talking to himself about kidnappings. So long as he keeps all his business back there and leaves you out of it, you’ll stay up here and mind your business. It’s the polite thing to do, really.

You do bat an eye, however, when you pull up to his address and there are police outside the building.

The arrangement you and the other taxi drivers have with the cultists in this town is as unshakable as it is unspoken. They pay extra for their fare, and you don’t drop them on the steps of the police station when they start discussing illegal shit or carry suspicious-looking packages into the back of the taxi with them. You leave them be, and they leave you be, and everything is all hunky-dory.

That agreement, of course, rests on ambiguity and plausible deniability. If anybody ever tried to bring an actual body into your taxi, or if you picked them up from an obvious murder scene or ritual sacrifice, then yeah—all bets are off. But generally, the cultists don’t want to end up behind bars any more than you want to end up buried six feet under, so it all tends to shake out all right.

This guy apparently didn’t get the memo. He’s staring at the cops wide-eyed, using every swear in the book, and it couldn’t be more obvious that he’s the reason they’re here if he stepped out of the cab and started shouting his confession to the wind.

“How can we calm down?” he mutters to fucking nobody. Yep, he’s off to the looney bin for sure. At least he can make an insanity plea once he gets arrested. “They—they’ve just found my partner, they’ve found his body … oh fuck—”

You resist the urge to turn and give this guy a what-the-fuck look. He knows you’ll have to make a report about this, right? Even if he gets out of the taxi right now and makes it past the police without being seen, he’s basically just confessed to fucking murder in front of you. You can’t not write this up. It wouldn’t be ethical.

As the man continues to ramble to himself, you rifle through the glovebox until you locate a pen and paper. You jot down the address and a quick description of the man. You’ve never actually had to make a report like this before—who would have thought, seeing something new in this town even after all these years—so you’re not sure what you’ll need. Best to be thorough.

As you’re studying the man’s face, he suddenly looks at you, wide-eyed. Before you can say anything, he pulls a random assortment of coins from his pocket and thrusts them towards you—Christ, five dollars, is that supposed to be hush money or something?—before practically fleeing the cab.

You stare at the coins for a moment, then at the paper in your hand, before shrugging, setting them both on the passenger side seat, and driving away.

You don’t know the man’s name, of course. But the police accept his address and description all the same.

There is a frazzled, frantic man in the back of your taxi, talking to himself, and you wish you could say that this is the weirdest thing that’s happened to you all day. But you’re pretty sure the guy who wore a white mask and said fuck all the whole ride holds that honor.

On the other hand, though, this man may have just confessed to murder? Some guy named Eddie? Or maybe whoever he’s talking to killed him—it’s a bit unclear. He’s clearly having a conversation with somebody, but there isn’t anybody else in the cab other than the two of you. Either you’re transporting a murderer (not ideal) or an insane person (also not ideal) or both (really not ideal).

But also, he’s almost certainly one of Arkham’s weird-as-all-hell cultists, so who knows. Maybe there is somebody back there, but they’re invisible. Or something.

You double the fare just in case.

You’re pretty sure the man is hyperventilating now. He keeps flexing the fingers of his left hand, staring down at it as he curls it into a fist and then uncurls it. The look in his eyes, a hungry sort of curiosity, is at stark odds with the horrified panic consuming the rest of him. It’s fucking unsettling.

At least the guy in the mask was quiet. And he tipped well.

It’s a low bar to be sure, but hey—money is money. You’ve gotta pay the bills somehow.

The man continues to study his left hand like it belongs in the fucking Met, and to be honest, it’s kinda starting to get to you. It’s funny; you’re hardly fazed by the murder confession, but everything else about this guy kinda makes your skin crawl. There’s something really freaky going on with him, and you want no part of it, you decide.

It’s a relief when you drop him off on the curb outside an abandoned old house and drive away. You wish you could tell yourself that you just won’t pick up people like him anymore, but you can’t. Aside from being utterly impractical, it’s not like you knew what he was going to be like until he climbed into your cab.

And besides, his money works just as well as anybody else’s. And god knows that’s all you can afford to care about.

The man from this morning is sitting in your taxi again. He looks different now—shaken, trembling, haunted. Like he’s seen a ghost, perhaps, or whatever spooky nonsense his kind of people get themselves involved in.

You’ll never understand it—why people join these cults. But you don’t have to. You just have to pick them up and drop them off and keep your mouth shut, and you excel at all three of those things.

You add the surcharge and start to drive. You recognize the provided address as the one you picked him up at a few hours ago—his house, maybe? You try not to be curious, but sometimes, you can’t help but wonder. Particularly when the man begins to talk to himself again, hushed but still very much audible, because it’s not like these cabs are soundproof, are you kidding?

“That is easy for you to say,” he says, sounding equal parts distressed and resigned. “I am losing pieces of myself. My ha—my hand is gone.”

You look in the rearview mirror. Nope; he still has two hands.

“My eyes are gone.”

And two eyes as well. Though they do dart around oddly, in a manner that doesn’t quite match what the rest of his body is doing.

“I don’t know what’s next to leave. For all I know, if you … if you take my mind entirely, I will no longer be able to think.”

Hm. You’re honestly not quite sure what to make of that.

You turn a corner. His building is just ahead.

Most of the other taxi drivers don’t believe in any of the horrible things that are rumored to lie just beneath the surface of Arkham. And they’re probably all the wiser for it, honestly. A good degree of skepticism is healthy in this job, he’s found. It helps you keep your distance, keeps you alive and kicking to see another day.

Still, it’s hard to watch these strange people get in and out of his cab and not believe, just a little bit, that there is something more to it all.

So, fuck it. Maybe there is some supernatural entity living in this guy’s brain or influencing him in some way. Maybe it controls him physically, or maybe it just makes him think that he’s being controlled. Some things are tricky like that, you’ve found—can make you see things that aren’t actually there.

Whatever the case, you … actually feel bad for the poor man sitting in your back seat. He’s clearly had one hell of a day. Exhaustion drags him down, and he gives you the distinct impression of somebody who was dragged kicking and screaming into the realm of the unnatural without being asked for permission. He smells a bit like blood and gunpowder. Normally you’d be put off by that, but it’s overwhelmingly surpassed by the pity you feel for this man.

However. As badly as you feel, as much as you pity him, there’s nothing in this world or any other that could convince you to get involved in his situation by choice.

So you drop the man off at 13 Mosby Avenue, alone in the rain, and drive away two dollars richer.

The last glimpse you catch of him is in the bright white of a lightning strike, high above in the clouds. He looks … taller, somehow. Like his shadow has peeled away from the ground and now looms ominously above, an unholy specter of darkness that winds around him like it’s trying to consume him utterly.

Then, you turn a corner and he disappears from view.

You blink a few times to dispel the image before pulling over to pick up another person who’s hailing you down. The two people who get in your cab seem normal, at least—a mother and her daughter, if you had to guess. They give you their address and then begin chatting quietly amongst themselves. All perfectly mundane.

Christ.

You really ought to retire, you think as you begin toward the next destination. It’s hard out there, and you’re lucky to have this job, but perhaps you’ve been doing this for too long if your eyes are starting to play tricks on you like that.

You ignore the voice in your head telling you that your eyes know exactly what they saw, just as you’ve ignored every other voice in your head over the past decade or so telling you that something is off, just as every other taxi driver has done and will continue to do. You drop off your passenger and pick up another, and if the one after that smells of sulfur and carries a black-stained backpack on their lap, well.

It’s really none of your business.

#malevolent #malevolent podcast #john doe #arthur lester #my writing #my fic #been rolling this idea around in my head for a while and the dreamlands server inspired me to finally write it <3

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cauterizedpod · 1 year

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Stop making so many good podcasts I have to listen to them several times before I can move on and I might die before I finish this listening list smh

#I still gotta listen to Colchis a 3rd time #And finish night post #And relisten to vesta clinic #I rolled tower 4 around in my head for 3 months before I moved on I savor my podcasts deliciously #I have reviews to get up on my fridge #I only just let go of it makes a sound and I'm so probably listening to it one more time. I need to send them an email #I bet that would tickle them to know wim faros lives in Cauterized

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h3adswillr0ll · 1 year

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Ur not allowed to listen to our podcast unless u

#dnd #dnd podcast #heads will roll #heads will roll podcast #bard #cleric #wizard #warlock #brightmaid #cowboy #changlings #fairy

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kr-0ws · 1 year

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God I love the gender fluidity of dnd characters

#yes I am talking about jrwi #but also taz and critical roll #and most any other dnd podcast #but currently my head is full of Caspian

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oflgtfol · 9 days

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literally shaking and trembling with the need to resist going into the malevolent tag

#AUGH #listened to uhm. part 24 this morning on my drive to work #im so. head in my hands #idk if its bc this is my first podcast or because im mostly consuming it while driving and talking to myself behind the wheel #but by the time i come on here i have no intelligent thoughts all i can say is like. Im rolling on the ground throwing up rn #anyway like IS THIS LEGIT JOHN? LIKE FOR REAL?#JOHN MY BESTIEEEEEEE #im glad hes back but now its like fuck it sounded like yellow was getting. Contemplative in the previous episode #SO LIKE i guess my question is answered that yellow and john ARE separate pieces #so was. yellow returned to the king?#does the king now have a piece of him who just has this little seed of doubt planted inside?#cuz yellow sounded like he was ever so slowly coming around. maybe. Perhaps #brot posts #mal posting #im just like. Bashing my head into the wall rn #head spinning with parallels and perpendiculars and complexity and nuance all that

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gimmeurtmi · 7 months

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kinktober day five — hyunjin

pairing: hwang hyunjin x fem!reader

tags: friends to lovers (kinda), kinktober series, smut!!!🔞

warnings: swearing, nude drawings, fingering, masturbation, use of “pretty”, lmk if i forgot anything!

inspo: uni student hyunjin but make it art

kink: exhibitionism

{ wc: 2522 }

It was a strange thing to be offered, but it was also flattering to be seen as a suitable candidate. The art department had reached out to a number of students to act as models for their sketch class—and you were one of them. It probably helped that your best friend, Hyunjin, was taking that class and you were sure he was the one to mention your name first.

He had asked you a few times to model for him and the only time you said yes was when you found a thrilling show to watch while you modelled; it was easier to stay still with your mind so occupied.

So you said yes.

And only then did the teacher tell you there was a catch.

“Nude?” You all but screamed.

“I know you and Mr. Hwang are close so I can pair you two together—but if you’re more comfortable modelling for a female student that’s fine too. Either way, you won’t be able to participate until you sign the forms.”

You looked at the consent forms in your hand, mulling it over for a few moments still. Modelling for a girl would be more comfortable, but you didn’t know anyone that took Art and being naked in front of a stranger was far more nerve wracking to you.

You called Hyunjin right away. He assured you he’d make sure you’re comfortable and that you didn’t have to agree at all and that he would buy you lunch for a week. He needed a good score on this assignment and he, too, didn’t feel all that comfortable sketching a stranger under those circumstances.

So you signed the forms.

You decided to use your room for the assignment, for privacy reasons and to help you feel more at ease. Nothing could be too scary with your supportive plushies in the same room as you.

Hyunjin walked in with his iced Americano (a second one for you, too) and started setting up his station.

He put all his pens and pencils in order, three huge erasers, two sharpeners, and his giant sketchbook. It was so big you guessed the sketch would end up being life sized.

As he set everything up, you fiddled nervously with the string of your robe. It was just your bathrobe, nothing too special, but the whole situation made your heart race and there was sweat gathering on your forehead.

You weren’t so sure if you could do this after all.

“Hyune,” you start, “does it have to be completely nude?”

He looked up at you from where he was straightening his pencils, eyes boring into you. You swallowed.

“Those are the requirements,” he caught his bottom lip between his teeth before he adds, “do you wanna put on some underwear as a warm-up?”

“Do you need sketches of me in my underwear?” You purse your lips.

“Not really,” he says, bashfully, “but if it’ll be an easier start for you?”

You inhale deeply. Untie your bathrobe. Exhale.

You let the fabric fall off your shoulders, pooling at your feet, before you settle on your bed.

Hyunjin nods at you with a small smile, encouraging.

“You got this,” he tries, putting a fist up in the air in solidarity.

“Can I put on a podcast so I don’t get bored?” You say, conscious to not move your legs too far apart.

“Sure, it’ll probably take me a while,” he chuckles, “I need to do like five.”

“Oh, dear god,” you roll your eyes and Hyunjin laughs at you. The nerves you were feeling have all disappeared already—it actually isn’t too weird being naked in front of him.

He’s your closest friend, has seen you being sick after drinking too much, has seen all your embarrassing childhood photos, has seen you with bed head and delirious from no sleep. He’s seen it all—so it shouldn’t be too weird for him to see your tits, too.

Hyunjin directs your poses, the first one casual as you lay on your back. He’s only sketching your upper body, he says, from the neck to your bellybutton, so he lets you cover up your bottom half with a blanket so you aren’t too cold. The first pose is fun since you don’t have to do anything too strenuous.

Once he flips the page on his sketchbook to a new one he changes your pose. This time your profile is facing him, the leg closer to him bent to hide most of your body. You don’t get the privilege of warmth this time, and your butt starts hurting after ten minutes in this position. But you focus on the podcast that’s still playing in the background instead, trying to be a good model for Hyunjin.

For the third pose he gets up and moves the table to the very edge of your bed. You look at him questioningly as he does so, before you let out a small, “why?”

“It’s just that, well, I need a close up,” he whispered the last part, eyes focused on rearranging his pencils neatly.

“Of….?” You think you know the answer.

“Of you,” he says, pointedly, and so you understand.

You can’t help but think he was going too easy on you until now, that this was the real assignment and he didn’t want to scare you away. And perhaps it worked, because the thought of Hyunjin staring at your pussy with that amount of concentration doesn’t scare you as much as it would’ve twenty minutes ago.

It actually… excites you. You feel a tingle all around your stomach, and your heartbeat feels louder all of a sudden.

It was one thing to just be naked in front of Hyunjin, but having him look right at you, with his face frowned in concentration made your core flutter.

You nod timidly at Hyunjin’s questioning look before he smiles. He sits back down on his chair, grabbing his pencil, and getting to the task at hand.

You feel yourself getting wet at the amount of attention he’s giving your body—even if it’s just with his eyes—and you hope he doesn’t notice it. But you do, and with your legs spread the way he asked them to be, you can even smell your own arousal. You hope he isn’t close enough to notice it as well, but you have a feeling that hope is futile. He can definitely tell.

“I read a lot about this once we were given the assignment,” he starts, focusing solely on his sketchbook as he talks, “and sometimes models feel.. you know. So don’t be embarrassed.”

“I’m…” you wanted to defend yourself, because you weren’t even that embarrassed. Just surprisingly turned on. “Okay.”

“It would be more embarrassing for you if you were a guy, guys can’t hide it,” he says, as if to make you feel better.

“I don’t think I can hide anything from you right now,” you scoff at him. Hyunjin giggles in response.

He lets another five minutes or so go by before he takes a look at his drawing. You can’t be too sure because you’ve never seen yourself so close before but it looks like a good sketch. A really good one. You’re flattered at the attention to detail and it doesn’t make you feel shy anymore. You’re almost proud.

“When I was reading,” he coughs, “there was someone who said it’s nicer to sketch those body parts after.. a.. well,”

“You’ve just stared at my vagina for twenty minutes straight, Hyune, surely you can get some words out.”

He looks up at you, eyes round and glossy. His plush bottom lip is slightly red from where he’s been sucking on it as he draws.

“Female genitalia is a beautiful subject to draw after the model has experienced sexual gratification.”

You burst out laughing. “Who talks like that?”

“That’s a direct quote from the article!” He defends.

“So you want me to sexually gratify myself?”

He blushes deeply at that, shaking his hands quickly. “Not if that’s weird! Just if you wanted to. I have enough to probably pass I was just curious if she was right about it and—“

The words die on his tongue when you bring your hand between your legs. Your actions are fuelled by a strange bravery you aren’t familiar with, and the insane amount of arousel that’s coursing through you.

He quickly gets up, turning his eyes away from you.

“Wait, I can leave and you can call me back in when you’re d—“

“—don’t,” you say, running your fingers up and down your wetness, “maybe you can draw the process, too?”

His eyes go wide, so wide he almost looks like a cartoon, before he’s fumbling around to find the chair again. He sits down, quickly grabbing his pencils but they all fall onto the floor in his clumsy urge to get drawing right away.

He recovers them quickly, setting them aside but not at all bothering to arrange them in his neat order like before.

“Yeah, good idea,” he finally says, trying his best to look and draw and breathe at the same time.

He doesn’t have time to draw you teasing yourself before you slip two of your fingers inside you.

The sight is so pretty, so beautiful, and Hyunjin freezes for a moment. He blinks once then twice before he quickly starts putting pencil to paper and sketching out the sight before him.

He knows he won’t be able to do any of it justice but he has to try.

“Can you, move a little less?” He asks after a moment or two.

“I won’t reach sexual gratification if I don’t move,” you explain with a chuckle. If you’re honest, having Hyunjin watching you touch yourself might be enough to get you to cum without much movement at all—but you aren’t sure he should know about all that.

“Yeah, but it’s fucking beautiful and I want to get the details right,” he says.

You exhale lightly at that, trying not to react too much to what he just said. You aren’t sure if he can see you clench around your own fingers or not, but you nod in agreement.

“Pull them out a little bit, just so I can see better,” he directs, so simply, as if he isn’t talking about your fingers deep inside your cunt.

You follow his directions dutifully, as you’ve done all afternoon.

It’s just half of your fingers now, which isn’t much, but you can still feel the stretch. Still, with no friction available to you it makes you needy. So needy.

You want to move your fingers more, you want Hyunjin to watch you do more.

“Hyune,” you say, softly.

“Yeah?” He asks, still concentrating on his task.

“Wanna move now,”

“Just a few final details, okay?” He adds in a whisper, “you’re so beautiful,”

“Hyunjin, please,” you let out, because his compliment isn’t helping your patience at all.

“Would it help if you moved for a bit and then went back to the same pose?” He offers, eyes swimming in sympathy.

“It would, yes,” you nod quickly.

“Go on, then, just for a bit,” he smiles, supportive, before his gaze goes back to his sketch. He takes an eraser, fixing up a few details in an attempt to give you some privacy. But you don’t want that at all.

“Hyunie,” you whine out, and his head snaps up in a second. “It’s no fun if you look away.”

“I, I’m trying not to,” his eyes jump between your face and your exposed pussy, then back to the page. “You should have some privacy.”

“Don’t want it,” you say quickly, fingers moving slowly in and out as he gives you a bit more attention, “want you to see this.”

“I wanna see it too,” he says quietly, “it’s so beautiful.”

“Then look at me,” your fingers move quicker now, your palm resting against your clit and applying just the right amount of pressure, “watch me fuck myself.”

“Fuck,” Hyunjin all but moans, head falling backwards before he quickly zeros in on your cunt.

You let your eyes scan down to his crotch, see the bulge he’s so clearly been trying to hide.

“Come here,” you ask him, patting the space next to you, “want you to really see me.”

Hyunjin almost flips the table over and runs to you, but instead he just trips over one of the legs, letting all the pencils fall again, before he’s climbing onto the bed.

He settles right in front of you, his knee touching your ankle, and lets himself fully gape at the sight in front of him.

“I looked through a lot of portraits you know,” he starts softly, his voice lower than usual, “and I think your pussy is the prettiest one.”

“Maybe it has something to do with the artist,” you smirk at him, mostly to try and hide how much you like him complimenting you.

“Not my sketch,” he’s quick to correct you, “the one here.”

As he says it, he brings his big hand on top of yours, pushing against your hand until your fingers go as deep as they can.

You moan loudly at that, jaw hanging open.

“That’s what you wanted, deep,” he confirmed to himself, looking at your knuckles disappearing into you. “Looks so nice like this, too.”

He grabs your wrist, lifting and pushing your hand in an impossible pace. Your fingers are sore from it after only a few seconds, but Hyunjin’s beautiful face is looking right at you and so you don’t do anything but moan.

“So pretty like this, too,” he says, slightly strained.

You grip his bicep, needing something to ground you as the pleasure starts building and building. It’s much more solid than he lets on, his arms big and strong and his grip on your hand tightening as your whines grow higher and higher until— “I’m gonna…”

“Want me to see it? Should I watch as you cum all over your fingers, pretty?”

And that’s all it takes for it to hit you at full force, your eyes shutting tightly as the pleasure takes over.

Hyunjin giggles at you, small dimples appearing by his cheeks as he averts his gaze away from you. He’s so beautiful even with his head turned away, looking for something.

He quickly finds it and grabs the tissues by your bed to hand you one. You quickly clean off your fingers as you giggle.

“Should you get back to drawing now?” You ask, breathless.

“Yes,” he nods, getting up with a very obvious tent in his pants. He adjusts himself as discreetly as he can, but a sense of pride takes over you knowing you’ve made him hard in the first place.

He gathers the pencils off the floor.

“Next I think I wanna draw your face when you cum, it’s really fucking gorgeous,” he says offhanded as he sketched out the outline of your cunt.

“I’ll have to cum again, no?” You mumble.

“That can be arranged,” he doesn’t even look up.

Your breathe catches in your throat.

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inkskinned · 7 months

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nobody ever gets the mugshot of gluttony right. these days you think it has nothing to do with bodyweight. what a good trick: that gluttony could take a shape. no, there was never any fault in finishing a meal or in taking second helpings. it was always in taking from others that there was an issue - the oil baron's fingers steepled over dead bodies and stolen lands. gluttony - twin of greed, although most think greed and envy are the siblings - gluttony is pleased with the experience of gaining, is thrilled just-by-having. greed is the one that stays hungry, that has to move forever like a shark. gluttony likes it - "a glutton for punishment" is one who is seeking the harm, who loves the rush.

gluttony is a mother using her daughter's body for a diet testing ground, sharpening the bone angles. gluttony is saying why, well not! to the seventh and eighth mansion or yacht. it is not just wanting the six white horses, it is making sure that the horses came from your stables. it is not just bathing in milk - it is bathing in milk while others are starving.

oh, it's true that some sins still blaze in their bright floral prints. wrath in a white woman yelling at a person of color for even daring to be in her neighborhood. the red, incipient rage of a neck tightened at even the thought we would take the guns away. wrath has laurels, and she is good at her job, and works hard.

but sloth wasn't ever the sleepy morning of depression, the hours spent begging a clouded body to please move goddamn it; the protestant work ethic claiming even rest is somehow demonic. it was never chronic fatigue. sloth was subtle, a grey mist. she is watching you get bullied and she is deciding it is none of her business. she crosses the picket line because - what! it's just chicken, isn't it? she is closing her eyes and turning her head when the next anti-gay legislation passes. someone else will handle it. not the tense freeze of anxiety or a lack of preparation - she knows you're hurting and would rather you stay quiet about it. she tells other people i just don't see what the big deal is.

sloth is a father that doesn't do the dishes. sloth is your boyfriend's innocent shrug you're just better at household shit. sloth isn't the missed opportunity - it is the purposeful desire to just get-someone-else-to-do-it.

greed and envy are doing body shots in the back of a private jet. they are the way they always have been, but are lovers in the age of the internet. greed just finished union busting, is rolling a bitcoin over his knuckles, is about to start another MLM. envy is in a broadbrimmed hat, showing off her instagram life, grinning about how if you want it, work for it.

okay, it's true. you have a soft spot for lust, gathering dust in a corner. so tame in comparison to the others. but how funny lust is always painted as being a woman in tight clothes. you've met actually lustful women - the ones that purposefully climb into your partner's lap, the ones that say lesbians are gross but ask bisexual women into bed with their husbands. a lustful woman is not donned in lace and garters and red: that's how men think lust looks, painting their own sins into frame. this way, the sin displaces as fog and hovers above her: a woman in a dress is lust; what the man experiences is just the natural consequence.

here is the thing: lust is doing just fine, save your pity. lust is running more circles than any of them. lust is shutting down safe sexwork sites while also making teenagers in knee-high socks sex sensations. lust is CEO of an advertising network where women never pass 25 years old. all the bras lust makes are pretty to look at but, when worn, legitimately hurt. lust has a podcast, his fur coat looped around his shoulders, sells the idea that only certain people have value, that sex raises some and destroys others. lust is tilting his head and asking what did you expect when you dress like that? lust shuns you, sneers that everything you want is disgusting and taboo - right until he can figure out how to capitalize off of it. lust has the midas ability: everything he touches becomes an object.

people usually say wrath is the scary one. you agree with FMA here, though: the real dangerous one is pride, and the shit-eating grin. the white cloaks and the nationalism and the inability to apologize. it is every partner who threw a book at your head because you don't respect him. it is every mother who said my son doesn't deserve to have his life ruined over allegations. it is the teacher that fails you because you talked back.

you worry you have this one. you feel guilty when you need help but don't ask for it. prideful. ashamed when you complete something and feel good about it. too proud for your own good. but pride is not the reward of hard work or accomplishment: pride is a twitter feed. it is the thing that has to mask i didn't do anything with look at me.

pride is your father's raised hand, his raised voice. how he was never there when you needed him, but he is still "head of house." he ruins dinner and blames it on you: you're an embarrassment to this family. this is the glass you walk around, the cuts in your feet. how he says this isn't how i raised you and you have to bite back the retort: that's because you didn't actually fucking raise me.

#i personally think having any of these desires is totally fine. it's when u use them to hurt others #it's why having ambitions =/= greed: as long as ur ambition isn't ''i hope i can take someone elses good things''#writeblr #warm up #seven deadly sins

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christhopersturniolo · 2 months

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୨ PODCAST ୧

summary: matt leaves the podcast because of his brother's jokes, and y/n comforts him.

warnings: cussing, sad, fluff

notes: this fanfic was a request! also english is not my first language so im sorry about any mistake

୨୧

The day with the Triplets has been a little stressful, specially for Matt. Each time he spoke, his brothers would joke saying that he was being way too ‘depressed’ and ‘miserable’. Or Nick would always answer with ‘Yeah, yeah nobody wants to hear about that shit’.

Now, after they invited me to their podcast, here I am, sitting next to my boyfriend, holding his hand gently.

As Chris and Nick keep talking over their brother, calling him ‘Miserable Matt’ I could see him getting more annoyed, his eyes watering, and it feels like I'm the only one seeing his discomfort.

I don’t really know what to do, cause obviously his brothers are just joking, and I'm not sure how to intervene without making things awkward.

They keep teasing him over and over.

“I'm not going to sit here for like another 55 minutes or some shit.” Matt’s voice getting slowly lower.

“What? What was that? That mumble? I can’t understand you.” The older triplet mocks him, but he tries to ignore it. “Ok go ahead-“

“Now you are ‘mumble Matt’ too” Chris laughs after Nick’s comment. “It's like I can't even understand what you are saying, sounds like rocks rolling down a hill, your voice”

I try to end the conversation "Can we just-" Before I can finish, Chris and Nick burst into laughter "Can we start the podcast?" I try again, but Matt lets out a heavy sigh.

Nick continues “it literally sounds like an avalanch coming out of your mouth” Matt gets up aggressively, starting to leave the room “I’m not doing this shit anymore.”

“Oh come on Matt!” Chris says chucking. They laugh some more as I just think of what to do. I get up from my seat, hurrying after him “Hey.. Matt..” I begin, attempting to catch his attention. However, before I could reach him, he gets in his room, and slams the door in my face, leaving me standing outside. I'm sure this is not just about the stupid jokes they were making.

I hesitate for a moment before making any move, thinking if I should open the door, i’m sorry, but I can't just ignore the urge to check on him.

With a deep breath, I reach out and calmly push the door open. Inside, I find Matt lying on his bed, his face buried in his pillow, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“Can we talk love?” I say quietly closing the door behind me.

He lifts his head, his eyes red and puffy, his expression a mixture of sadness and anger. "What do you want?" His voice defensive.

Ignoring his tone, I move closer and sit on the bed.

With a gentle touch, I reach out and place my hand on his back, offering a silent gesture of comfort. For a moment, we sit in silence, until I interrupt it.

“Can you tell me what has been going on lately?” I ask softly, my voice filled with concern.

“Nothings going on” He sniffs, still with his face in the pillow “I’m fine” His voice barely above a whisper.

I shake my head, not trusting his words. "You don't seem fine to me" He stays silent, I take a deep breath.

I adjust my position, leaning against the headboard of the bed. I decide to take a different approach instead of talking “Come here..” I pat the spot next to me, in sign for him to come closer “Let's just cuddle for a bit."

He completely stops acting rude in the moment I suggest it, Matt scoots closer, laying his head on my chest, his arms around my waist. I stroke his smooth brown hair. I kiss the top of his head. We stay like this for some good ten minutes.

He presses his face into the crook of my neck and whispers with a shaky voice “I’m just so fucked up..”

Gently, I cupped his cheeks, lifting his head from my neck, making him look into my eyes “Matt.. Why do you say that?”

"I just.. I don't know" He admits. "I'm just so fucking exhausted of feeling like this all the time..”

I sigh, I hate seeing him in this state. “Since when do you feel like that?” I wait patiently for Matt's response, he looks away.

“I don’t know.. For some long time now.. I guess I've been trying to push it away, but it just keeps coming back, over and over.” As he spoke, I could see the pain in his eyes.

"I'm sorry I couldn't see it sooner babe.." I whisper, reaching out to gently brush away his tears. "I should have known something was wrong." I kiss his forehead.

He shakes his head "It's not your fault" He murmurs "I don’t want you to worry"

I wrap my arms around him, holding him close. "But I do worry, Matt" I confess softly. "I care about you more than anything."

He buries his face deeper into my chest. "I love you so much.." He whispers, his voice muffled by the fabric of my shirt.

"I love you too.." I whisper back in his ear, squeezing him tightly.

୨୧

sorry this is so short 😭😭

tags: @muwapsturniolo

#chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo smut #sturniolo smut #fanfic #christopher sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo triplets x reader #sturniolo x reader #st

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harrysfolklore · 5 months

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Tom Blyth and YN Take a Couples Quiz | GQ - actress!yn

gif by @obriy <333

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

read my actress!yn x tom insta blurb here <3

"Hi I'm YN"

"And I'm Tom"

"And today we're doing..." you looked at Tom so you could say the following part of your introduction together, "The GQ Couple Quiz!"

"Are you nervous?" you said as you looked at him, noticing his hands fidgeting on his lap.

"I'm alright, I'm pretty confident I'm a great boyfriend and I'll know all the answers." he gave the camera his million dollar smile and you couldn't help but show a smile of your own.

"Okay, first question," you looked at the card in your hands, "What is the name of my first movie?

"That one's pretty easy," he shrugged before continuing, "Spider-man Homecoming."

"That's correct," you flipped the card to read the next question, "What city did I grow up in?

Tom stayed quiet for few seconds, looking nervously at the camera and making you laugh.

"Already? Really?" you looked at him in disbelief, "I thought you were a great boyfriend!"

"I am! This is a tricky one!" Tom moved his hands around and you covered your mouth with the card to hide your laugh "Okay, you were born in California, but you actually grew up in Phoenix."

"Correct! See! You knew it," you grabbed the card with the next question, "What would my job be if I weren't an actress?"

"Detective," Tom quickly said, "100% detective."

"Oh! That was fast," Tom shrugged before you continued, "Okay bonus, what kind of detective?" you looked at him with a raise eyebrow.

"Homicide," he replied quickly again, "All of those true crime podcasts prove it."

"Well yeah, that's true," you smiled as you read out the following question, "Where was our first date?"

"It was at your house," Tom smiled as he remembered the moment, "And it was playing Clue, and I had to pretend to enjoy that game for you, and it was totally worth it."

"How sweet of you," you smiled at him before continuing, "Oh boy, you have to be specific for this one," Tom raised his eyebrows and waited for you to give him the question, "What is my night routine?"

"So, she puts on this little pink robe," he explained directly to the camera, "And then she puts her hair on one of these stretchy bandanna things so her hair is out of her face," you smiled at him, indicating that he was answering correctly, "Then she washes her face with this like foamy cleanse thing, then she puts on all her creams, and then when she's walking to the bed she turns on the heat, which is probably the only thing that we fight about," you both let out a laugh as he continued, "And then she gets in, she goes by her cupboard and she puts on these really fluffy and ridiculously warm socks and also my really baggy tracksuit bottoms but she rolls 'em and she puts one of my t-shirts 'cause she likes the smell of my aftershave," he smirked and you blushed for a second, "Then she gets in bed and she asks me to put one of these big fluffy, white blankets in the dryer so It's warm, then I tuck her in and put the other blanket on her and that's it."

"Okay wow, you killed that one," you smiled at him, "You did really well."

The next questions were pretty easy for Tom's liking, getting right your astrological sing, celebrity crush, favorite ice cream flavor and the year you won your first Emmy. He ended up getting 23 points.

Now, it was your turn to answer questions about him.

"You feel ready, love?" he said giving you a smirk and you only nodded motioning him to read the first question, "Okay good luck, how old was I when I got my first role?"

"You were fifteen and already getting cast by Ridley Scott ." you answered confidently and sent a wink his way.

"Neat. What was the name of the high school I graduated from?"

"Was it North Hilld?" at this, Tom raised his eyebrows and shook his head, "Shit! It was Hills something, right?"

"You really don't know the name, love? This is making you look bad!" you covered your face in embarrassment, even tho you knew he was joking, "The correct answer is Arnold Hills."

"Ohhh that's right, give me the next one I'll do better."

"Okay, okay," he looked down at the card with the next question, "Who's my celebrity crush?"

"Also easy, Jennifer Aniston," you smiled looking at the camera, “You had a poster of her hidden in your closet and all.”

"Nope, you're wrong," you raised your eyebrow at him, pretty sure you were right about your answer, "You're my celebrity crush, love."

"Tom! That was so bad!" you both laughed and he winked to the camera, "This is a serious game."

"Okay, okay, you got that one right," you rolled your eyes with affection as he read your next question, "The next questions are going to be a single sentence answer so I need you to do it as fast as you can, okay?"

"I'm ready, let's do it"

"My go-to Karaoke song?

"Senorita by Justin Timberlake."

"What is my coffee order?"

"Oat milk latte."

"What is my biggest pet peeve?"

"Loud chewers."

"What's my hidden talent?"

"Whistling, like, melodically whistling if that makes sense."

"Okayy, those are all correct," he put the cards on the small coffee table between you, "We make a pretty good team, don´t you think?"

"We do, but I'm pretty sure I won." you shrugged and Tom laughed as you both turned to the camera to say your goodbyes.

"Thank you so much for watching. I personally think I won but we'll see."

"Thank you GQ!" you waved you hand and the camera stopped rolling shortly after.

The video ended up being one of the most watched on GQ's YouTube channel.

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