#cannibalyaps

You were sitting on Leon’s motorcycle in a dark, empty parking lot. It was probably close to midnight, the air biting as you sucked in sharp, shuddering breaths. A dampness filled the air and clung to the black metal in beads and rivulets. Like sweat on steel, slick against your thighs and biting cold.

Leon sat behind you, one arm wrapped gently around your waist, keeping your back pressed against his front. His knees pressed behind yours, letting you push off him as your hips jerked forward. You could feel Leon’s breath, hot and wet, fall over the sensitive skin of your neck as his lips traced a line up to your ear. 

You pressed your clothed pussy against the seat, hips rocking slow and deep to get friction. Every time the seam of your jeans caught against your clit, little sparks shot up and made you whimper. Each pass gave a little more than the last, carefully untangling you into a heap of flimsy string, making your skin burn and shiver as Leon rubbed circles over your leg, barely rising to your inner thigh before retreating in a taunt. 

“You’re doing so good,” he grumbled in your ear, planting a firm kiss to your neck, right over your pulse. “Want my fingers?” You nodded and exhaled little panting whines. 

Leaning forward a bit, arm extended to keep you from folding over the front of the vehicle, you felt the hand around your waist begin to move, and Leon’s fingers teasing the waistband before pulling your jeans. The seam caught hard against your clit, snapping side-to-side over the sensitive bead, and you bit your lip as you arched against Leon. His breath caught when you let out an uncontrolled moan, and you felt with buzzing anticipation as he unhooked the button and slowly unzipped your pants. 

“I’m getting jealous,” he said with a soft chuckle, his lips pressing against your jaw. “Bikes havin’ all the fun.”

You moaned again, low and breathless, as he tugged your panties and slipped his middle finger between them. The cool air against your skin, the sound of his leather jacket, the feel of the metal beneath your fingers as you lowered yourself over the front of the bike, it was all starting to drive you crazy. Leon’s finger slipped between the folds of your heat, making you twitch.

“Fuck, wetter than I expected. Is it for me or the bike?” You barely heard him behind you, focused entirely on how the pad of his finger pressed lightly against the top of your clit, the bud hardening from the sensation. 

His other hand rubbed over your back, catching and pulling lightly on the hook of your bra. You lifted yourself just enough for him to pull up your shirt, breath catching as the cold leather seat made contact with your skin. His finger slid deeper between your pussy lips until you could feel him brushing over your entrance before sliding back up to circle your clit.

It made your hips jerk, and you pressed your cheek against the speedometer while he unhooked your bra and reached around to take a full breast in his palm, thumb brushing over your nipple until it hardened and you were whimpering. “That’s it baby—god, you’re so wet. Bet you’re tight too,” Leon leaned over you, pressing you down over his hand, his first and middle finger rubbing your clit faster. “Should I check?”

You ground your ass against him, feeling how hard he already was and moaning about it. Leon shuddered against you, exhaling a low, rumbling grunt. He grabbed at your waist to keep you steady, clicking his tongue. “Is that supposed to be a yes?”

“Mhm,” you managed to get out, all hot and bothered now, impatiently trying to grind your hips against his hand between your legs and the hard press of the seat. 

“That’s my girl,” he said, placing a kiss on your shoulder. You felt his fingers slow their circling around your clit, starting to slide down through the slickness and tease at your entrance. Clenching around nothing, squirming against the bike and the hard warmth of his body caging you in, keeping you from fully seeking your own release. 

And then he slid his middle finger past the pulsating, sensitive muscles. You grabbed at nothing, your bare chest flat against the fuel tank, damp from the humidity. After sliding past the second knuckle, Leon forced his ring finger inside, widening you further. 

You stroked a hand over the bike, sticking and sliding over the black metal in an unknown rhythm, all while Leon curled his fingers and started rubbing against the soft sponge that made your back bow and an uncontrolled moan escape. It was easy to imagine the hard metal was his body, that you were grinding on his thigh, or his rigid abdomen. That the taste of metal was salty sweat instead. 

Leon wasn’t the type to go slow, agonizing you with teasing and barely getting you off. Especially not when you were rutting yourself against his bike, getting drool all over the speedometer while your eyes rolled. He worked you in that fast, devastating way you knew best, like all he wanted was to push you as far as you could go, until you were a shaking mess, and pleasure bordered on pain. 

Later, when he had you in his bed naked and impatient, he’d take his time to watch you shiver, feel you clench, hear your breath catch, and he’d torture you with his ability to be patient. 

There was something entirely wrong with how you stroked the metal beneath you, how you tipped your head down and opened your mouth against the gas tank, licking the damp and tasting dust. Leon cursed under his breath, imagining your hot breath, your tongue leaving a trail of saliva up his shaft before taking him deep in your mouth. You’d gag on him as he fucked into your throat, your vibrating moans like electricity sparking through him. 

You started thrusting your hips against his hand, his thumb pressed firmly over your clit, rubbing in a similar motion to his fingers inside you. The cold metal your chest rubbed over was a sensation all in itself, making your nipples firm and your mouth water as shocks of pleasure skidded down to where his fingers ground. 

As a shuddering pulse rolled over, you grabbed the handlebars in an effort to sit up, changing the position of his fingers and allowing you to thrust faster. The bike would probably skirt forward with every roll of your hips if Leon wasn't there, all firm focus as he worked you into oblivion. 

He sucked at your neck, inhaling your scent like a drug while he chewed blooming purple marks into you. Leon was addicted to you, completely and utterly. He weakly thrust against you, thick bulge pressing into your back. You’d get your revenge on him, work him until all that bravado and stoicism crumbled into a whiny mess. Coming up with a plan was put on hold, however. 

You felt, with agonizing sensitivity, as Leon slowly inserted a third finger, giving a pleased hum as your greedy cunt sucked him in. There was completely no friction anymore as you drenched through your panties and dampened your jeans. It made it so easy for Leon to speed up and slow down his pace, bringing you to the edge of release before pulling you back down, just to build up that pressure inside your core like a simmering pot. 

Your legs were uncontrollably shaking before long, lewd, almost wet-sounding moans and whines escaping you with each exhale, a complete disregard for discretion. Fuck, you’d probably cum on the spot if someone found the two of you like that. And that was a kind of idea that sent butterflies through your body. 

You pressed your cheek against the gas tank, your hips bucked up and grinding against him as you chased his fingers and did everything to stop him from teasing you. “Please, Leon—please,” you begged, feeling his hardening cock against your backside. 

“Fuck,” he breathed against your neck, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder as you teased him. “I know baby. You gotta cum? Do it for me, and it’ll be over. All over, sweet thing.” 

You didn’t need much encouragement. Leon sped up his fingers inside you, barely thrusting his thick digits so he could rub on your sensitive inner walls hard while his thumb toyed with your clit faster, building up a rhythm that had you thrusting into his hand again, your back arching as breathy, echoing moans left your throat. 

“Oh god, oh, Leon—I’m gunna—I’m, hmmph,” Leon covered your mouth with his free hand, muffling your cry as you came with a pulsing squelch over his fingers. Your back bowed, teeth pressing into his hand as your body convulsed. Blinding pleasure crashed through you with shuddering waves that Leon steadily guided you through. 

It was so intense, rippling through your entire body and making your toes curl, your legs shake, your hands scramble for purchase against the bike. Everything heightened, your heartbeat fluttering in your head, breaths uneven, thoughts scrambled, all while Leon slowed his ministrations, every circle over your swollen clit making you twitch again. He pulled his fingers out of you with a squelching sound as your cunt pulsed around nothing again. It’s obscene what he does to you, what he makes your body do. 

“You did so good, baby. So good,” Leon whispered against you, pulling his fingers out from beneath your pants, slick with your juices. He licked those soaking fingers, tasting you with a satisfied groan, like liquid gold. 

You leaned back, twisting yourself as far as you could, and kissed him just so you could taste yourself on his tongue. You licked into his mouth, felt his arms slide around you again, and pull you close as his tongue flattened over the roof of your mouth and smothered your harsh breaths. He could taste the dusty metal you had sucked on, the metallic tang of your saliva as he swallowed you down. 

“Think you can ride home like this?” he questioned, rubbing his hand down your chest, pulling your shirt with him. “You just gotta hold onto me, okay?”

You nodded dumbly, mumbling out a “mhm” reply while he zipped your jeans up for you. Leon was so gentle as he wrapped his arms around you, muttering “good girl,” and “my sweet, perfect girl,” against your skin as he pulled you back until you were seated on the pillion. 

Leon tried to put your helmet on for you, the softness of his actions making you giggle as you reached up to help guide him. You watched him put his leather gloves back on and then his own helmet (safety first) before he mounted the bike in front of you. He reached back and pulled your elbows so you’d lean all your weight against him, your hands firmly around his torso. 

The rumble of the motorcycle revved back to life, its engine echoing across the empty lot and warm light flickering on. The vibration in your seat was as soothing as it was stimulating, and you had to tighten your grip on Leon’s jacket. He was slow to pull out of the parking lot, a little distracted by how warm the seat was, the spot of dampness he saw you left behind, and the taste of you still on his tongue.

The genuine flow state I entered writing this. I only wish I got the ending better :(

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.

I imagine after some mind-splitting sex—the kind that has you bent over just about every surface of the apartment in some failed tour of the place, ending with you riding him on your bed while he buries his face between your tits, mumbling about how he likes the color you painted the walls—while you’re fucked out asleep, and after a careful cleaning and peppered kisses while he told you just how good of a girl you were for him, Jack doesn’t go snooping as much as he just takes in your place, a place that is filled to the brim with you in ways he’s never seen before.

He walks around like he’s in a museum, hands behind his back in a precautionary way so he doesn’t even have a chance of knocking something over, leaning forward to inspect framed pictures and little trinkets. And then he gets to your vanity and sees the shape it's in. Compared to all the big names and expensive products you constantly indulge in (thanks to him) and your insistence on staying trendy, your makeup and skincare are surprisingly well-used. A lot of it is old or running out, barely any setting powder left in the container, your foundation cap smudged with excess, your lipstick only usable cause of the brush you apply it with.

So there he is, taking pictures of all your skincare products to catalog and spritzing your perfumes to smell them out of pure curiosity and not because he may or may not get butterflies when you pass him by in the emergency room and that floral smell soothes over the antiseptic fog. Maybe he'd fumble a little while snooping around your jewelry box, thinking your delicate flower earrings are the cutest things ever (he'll ask you to wear them next shift and get all proud of himself when you get compliments on them cause yes, Jack Abbot does know how to dress his girl).

And maybe it becomes his new obsession—hobby—just a way to pass time when you don't share shifts and he’s left moping around without being able to call you. He’ll spend hours at the mall and every makeup store trying to find all the labels that match the pictures, stare at them for too long and decide they’re not good enough for you, then corner the poor workers to get their opinions on what the best of the best is. The man is dedicated, and as soon as the idea of taking care of you came to mind, he decided to go all in.

He’s the type to love watching you get ready for your shift, how meticulous your routine is, and how you always manage to finish with barely enough time to get to work without Dana rolling her eyes at you. He’s 100% the type to practically force you to put a face mask on him so he doesn’t feel left out, his hair pulled back with a pink headband—the look suits him surprisingly well—he’d even go as far as wrapping himself in a bathrobe to match you while watching Bridgerton and waiting for the mask to set. And of course he’s there, a hand braced on the back of the vanity chair you’re sitting at, listening as you tell him why you use these products and not the ones he researched and was recommended.

“It’s got nothing to do with how fancy the label is or what’s in it,” you have to explain to a painfully sorry-looking Jack, who’s trying very hard to understand why you’d prefer Bare Minerals (still pricy) over something like Chanel or Lancome (even more pricy), which he found in about 90% of the beauty magazines he now reads while waiting for his coffee in the evening.

He doesn’t get it—the whole loyalty to a brand or the search for what doesn’t make your skin absolutely throw a tantrum—but he doesn’t argue. And it's really sweet how he replaces your old and probably expired setting powder with a new one two days later. And then takes that generic lipstick you can't part from so he can get it shade-matched at Ulta.

Jack is incredibly good at the silent love game. Gift-giving fills him with too much satisfaction for it to be normal, while caring for others is basically the foundation of his being. And you… Well, who can say no to gifts from a devastatingly attractive older man who likes to spend shared days off fucking you on the kitchen counter, telling you to ignore the water bottle you spilled when you sprawled out for him so he could dig his tongue into your pussy like a starving, desperate animal? He has a way with that mouth of his to make you a babbling mess of accepting whatever he gives, even if it’s agreeing to dinner reservations or moving in with him…

｡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 ⤴︎