ʟᴇᴛ'ꜱ ɢᴇᴛ 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓀𝓎

｡𖦹°‧ About me ⋆˚꩜｡

⟡ Call me Kermit ⟡ 20 ⟡ 18+ Minors DNI ⟡ She/Her/They ⟡

I love Ethel Cain, Noah Kahan, Björk, Deftones, Muse, etc. Music is my life 

I’m a writer and a multimedia artist (oil, acrylic, watercolor, digital), currently a freshman in college majoring in English, hoping to become a teacher! 

˚∘⊰⋆☆ My Favorite movies: Phantom of the Opera (2004), Dracula (1992), Pride and Prejudice (2005), Ever After (1998), Braveheart

˚∘⊰⋆☆ My Fandoms: The Pitt, ER, LADS, Hannibal, KotSK, Star Wars, Marvel, The Boys (it’s complicated), Supernatural, The Bear, Resident Evil, DMC, Animal Kingdom, generic pain and suffering

˚∘⊰⋆☆ Current Works: drabbles on Tumblr, and you can find me on Wattpad and Ao3! I have two ACoTaR fics (it was during the forbidden teen years) and a KotSK fic in progress! My long works (anywhere from 20k to 166k) are on those sites, and my update schedule for them is very unpredictable because they take a lot out of me. I intend for this blog to be for short stories, requests, and quick scenes that come to mind! ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ) I may create a masterlist in the future for organizing, but it's not a priority.

˚∘⊰⋆☆ Tags: [unrelated, just yapping] #kermityaps | [all blog posts to filter out reblogs] #cannibalkermit time ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ) | [drabbles] #cannibaltalks | [one-shots] #cannibalyaps |

˚∘⊰⋆☆ What I will write:  Self-indulgent stuff, so probably lots of fluff/smut, one-shots, and little character studies (I’m a sucker for character studies) ◊ will only write afab pov or third person ◊ fluff - angst - smut welcomed ◊ may get a little freaky, may get a little kinky and wild ◊ all is welcomed here, this blog is literally for my freak to be let free

I’ll write almost anything except: incest, pedophilia, ageplay, ddlg, raceplay, necrophelia, mommy/daddy kink. These are just things I'm not comfortable with, please respect that. 

Look, I can’t stop minors from reading fanfiction, and I’m not going to try. But please respect my discomfort as an adult interacting with minors on a blog like this. If I suspect you are a minor, I will not interact. 

Please do not post my work to other places ◊ I do not consent nor condone any of my work being fed into any AI or AI chatbots ◊ please be respectful, unproblematic little freaks, not gross bad freaks 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯

Credit for all dividers I use goes to @pixopix, @cafekitsune, @lobster-graphics and @chrisssiren

this is me btw ⤴︎

Pope wanting to fuck you in front of the mirror cause he loves your ass and kneading his hands into the soft folds of your hips as you bend and bend and bend, knees shaking and sweat just beading down your legs, mixing with the slick between your thighs. But he wants to look at your face, make you look at him. He wants to see your eyes roll back, saliva dribbling between his fingers hooked in your mouth, pulling your cheek open so your choking sobs and cries are loud and clear.

He fists your hair and pulls hard enough to make you cry, arching your back and letting his thick cock bruise your insides, let him see the bulge in the reflection as he buries himself, the clapping sounds of his pelvis against your ass growing louder and losing rhythm.

He pulls your hair so he can bite at your shoulder and neck, growling against your skin, tasting salty sweat and smelling sex. “You look at me when I fuck you.”

He lets you go and you just fold over yourself, standing on your toes being held up by Pope. Every thrust in this new position lets his balls slap against your puffy clit, making you hiccup as you try to tell him your cumming. It's slow and lingering, sizzling all over your body and making your head pound as blood rushes and your walls flutter around his throbbing dick, sucking him in deeper, creating a milky rim around his base. He just loves how your hole sticks to him, not wanting to let go, how your slick spreads across his pelvis as he grinds, slapping your ass to make you yelp.

He pulls you back up and makes you brace yourself against the mirror, your breath fogging the glass, hair sticking to your cheeks. He’s fucking mesmerized by your hanging tits bouncing and slapping as he beats your cervix with his tip, balls getting tight.

He can't let himself cum without you, so he starts abusing your sensitive clit, pinching and rubbing painfully fast, making your face scrunch as you choke. The sight of you shaking, dripping sweat down your chin and back, all plush beneath his hands, thighs raw, has him in a fucking haze as he coats your insides in cum and makes you squirt, your legs just giving out.

He’ll be so sweet with the aftercare, drawing you a hot bath and brushing your hair for you, letting you turn to mush against him, trusting him entirely to be gentle with you. He’ll stay up all night watching you sleep, knowing you don't regret a moment shared.

You work night shift most often, fitting in with the other nurses and their more laid-back attitudes. Most of the time spent gossiping about the day shift and complaining about how they left the nurses' stations, interrupted by the myriad of weird cases that come through. You got some pretty nails this week, something to spoil yourself. A set of long acrylics with sparkly designs and gemstones, the type that makes the keyboards clink.

Of course the moment you walk in, Dr. Abbot is by your side like a shadow, peering down at your pretty fingers as he reaches for them, stopping short. “Don't remember these,” he states in that whispery tone of his. 

You barely glance at him, already getting all flustered. He just towers over you. “Am I not allowed?” 

He shakes his head, clasping his hands behind his back like he’s putting himself in timeout because he can barely keep himself from reaching for you. “No, no, it's great. Very… fancy.”

“Yeah, well… I like treating myself every blue moon.” You step away, ready to get to the first patient on your rotation, not knowing you just threw a lure so enticing that Abbot can't help himself :( He’s suddenly obsessed.

Ugh and when Mateo teases you about how almost late you were cause you couldn't help but stop at that boogie pastry shop two blocks away. He’s cracking up about your inability to stop yourself from the frivolous things.

It’s not frivolous if you get something out of it. “It’s called enjoying the sensual side of life. No wonder I’m happier than half this place,” you quip back.

“Now what could you two possibly be talkin’ about?” Abbot interrupts, and the way you stiffen at his voice does nothing to ease his smugness.

Mateo beats you to the punch. “Just terrible spending habits.”

“Treating myself! I treat myself, nothing wrong with that,” you huff, arms crossing. Abbot can't help but find it adorable how frazzled and defensive you get! Like an angry little puppy he can pat on the head if he wants. It's almost like torture.

And it's easy to figure out your taste; you don't hide it. When a woman comes in with fainting spells and you just blurt out the name of the perfume she’s wearing—some Chanel number he didn't quite decipher. How you hunch over your phone in the break room, zooming in on photos from the most recent Dior runway show, or when you almost obsessively check your phone during New York fashion week. Or when you come to work all gloomy cause you couldn't make time to stop by your favorite bakery. 

Abbot wants to indulge you—wants to indulge in you. The way you can just endlessly rant about your hatred of fast fashion, how you need your music on and an hour alone with your lunch or you’ll be moody the rest of your shift, how you talk about that one imported chocolate you had three years ago that you can never forget. 

And it becomes an all-consuming need after you reject his attempts. He notices how you have to force yourself to push away the hundred-dollar gift card to a nail salon that’s supposed to be a reward for your quick thinking a few nights ago. How every inch of you wants to snatch it up and go treat yourself, but you’re so scared of HR and the age gap that you’re tryna force yourself to reject him. You’re not really good at it though.

You try to ignore the butterflies when you find out the assorted pastries that started showing up in the break room last week are because of Jack. You barely keep yourself from reacting when he casually drops a pretty little necklace on the chart your bent over one night (you later find out it's worth five hundred dollars and scream at your friends)

Of course Abbot would spend that much on you! He’d probably pay your rent for you if you asked. He’s got all this money and had nothing to do with it until you showed up in his life, and he doesn't really know what to do with it. Five hundred for a necklace? Totally reasonable if it's for you. A thousand for pretty Jimmy Choo heels he imagines slowly unclasping while kneeling between your legs? Perfectly normal. 

And there's something sickenly attractive about how he praises you with gifts. You might get so embarrassed over your reaction that you're covering your face and hiding in a storage closet, but Abbot can't imagine a better way of telling you how good of a girl you are. Of course, it’s better if he gets to say it to you, but he’s gotta play it cool.

You assist with a difficult case once and find a pretty package next to your locker at the end of your shift with your name drawn in fancy cursive. It doesn't take long to figure out it's from Dr. Abbot—his handwriting is etched in your skull at this point. You take it home and open it to find a gorgeous silk dress in your favorite color that somehow fits perfectly. Either he’s got an incredible eye or your friends are double-crossing you.

It's almost comical how he slowly integrates new pieces of expensive things into your collection: a rose-gold Tiffany diamond necklace in a navy blue box with your name mysteriously appearing at the nurses' station. A box of imported chocolates and a bouquet of your favorite flowers wrapped in a silk bow delivered to your apartment at the end of a grueling week. That Armani perfume you were eying at the mall last week magically delivered in a blue gift bag by Dana when Robby dragged you back to day shift. Traitorous, scheming colleagues. 

And then he passes you an envelope at the end of your latest shift, muttering another one of his praises that sends heat rushing up your face. You open it in the parking lot, giggling at the thick, expensive paper. Inside the blank card is that rough cursive you’ve grown used to, spelling out a date and time, and the name of a high-end rooftop restaurant all the food bloggers rage about. 

Well… of course you’re going. You doll yourself up the best you can, spending three hours and two youtube tutorials on your makeup, topping it off with a bright red lipstick you know will transfer. That pretty dress he bought you, some sheer stockings, those new sparkly heels, spraying that perfume all over yourself before walking out the door. And obviously Abbot is already waiting for you like a gentleman because there's no way he’d let you drive yourself there. 

And after that excellent dinner, you ask him to take you back to his place, all giddy with nerves, and you don't even make it halfway through the door before pouncing on him, smearing your lipstick in a way that makes poor Jack weak in the knees for you. He’ll be slow with you, taking all of you in. Inhaling your scent mixed with the perfume, run his hands up and down your back, pulling the dress off you so slowly that you shiver. He's kissing your legs while rolling down your stockings and placing your foot on his knee so he can take off your shoes, tossing them aside without a single care in the world. 

He’d eat you out in the living room, your legs over his shoulders, thighs squeezing him in place as you rock yourself against his mouth, his tongue lapping at your clit before sucking down on you. He'd nip at your swollen bud and groan against you, watching how your back arches and your chest rises and falls, gripping your thighs so tight there are indents. His fingers would tease and prod before curling up inside you, filling you up in a way that leaves you wanting more, and you'd babble "please, pleaasseee jack. more, need more" with little squeaks every time he pinches your clit between his teeth. He'd be so nice obliging you, rubbing the pads of his fingers against that little spot faster and faster till you’re pulling his hair and choking on his name.

Then he’d fuck you on his bamboo sheets, making you cum two more times with the help of toys kept in the bedside table, all to make your clit numb with pleasure and your walls flutter around him as he just beats into you. He knows exactly what he's doing, not that you’re coherent enough to notice, you’re just focused on how his impossibly thick length stretches you out and makes you squirm as obscene squelching sounds fill the room, your release coating him and making a little damp spot on the sheets. And after he paints your stomach with release, moaning and groaning against your skin while you whine for him, he cleans you up so carefully, whispering praises between every peppered kiss, calling you his good girl like he’s been dreaming of making you his for months. 

You’d be so sore the next day, lazily lounging in the soft sheets while the morning passes by, waking up slowly when Jack starts gently eating you out, mumbling something about ordering breakfast, but neither of you are paying attention when the doorbell rings an hour later.