✒ This is my secret, purely self-indulgent crack blog (˶>⩊<˶)
✒ I use this to reblog all the fics I enjoy and simp post (¬ᴗ ´¬)
✒ I write fanfiction and drabbles, multifandom
✒ please feel free to leave asks! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
𝐼𝓂𝓅𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒 ˚∘⊰⋆☆ this is technically a side blog, not a main one (I know, mistakes were made, I am a tumblr newbie), so if you get a like/follow from a little kermit4president-of-the-swamp, that's just me (ᵕ—ᴗ—)
And to my mutuals, I'M SORRY IT'S CONFUSING FOR ME TOO
｡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
younger nurse reader who has impeccable taste in everything and likes the finer things in life and abbot desperately wants to spoil her because he thinks that’s cute but she won’t let him ;))))
It took a bit to get done and the beginning was slow so I kinda spiraled but UGH this is literally giving me life! I had so much fun ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧
Abbot would be relentless! He just loves seeing you get all flustered tryna tell him no (˶>⩊<˶)
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 don't think anyone cares that Noah wyle is doing activism for Healthcare workers. like no one's mad at that. I think they're upset bc its been proven time and time again that he's a raging misogynist with a jealousy problem towards the cast of his own show. and, a zionist. stop boymomming a 50 year old man and hold him accountable to what harm he's actually done.
Pope Cody would be obsessed with overstimulating you without using his cock once. He’d be smug about it too, reminding you often how he managed to make you cum four—no, five times in one night, with his thick hands and broad tongue.
How you whined and shook uncontrollably, your face all hot and the blood rushing. He’s insatiable, sucking and biting and nuzzling your sore, puffy clit till you cum so many times that you go numb and squirt over his hand.
AND THEN only after you’re so overstimulated that you’re crying and pushing him away while begging that it's too much, he’d crawl over you and finally bury his cock slow and deep into your heat, grinding his pelvis against you and making you twitch around him.
Content: smut, p in v, fingering, squirting, alcohol consumption, hookup culture lol
Masterlist❤︎
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There is nothing better than being fucked completely senseless.
Arguably the best remedy for a chronically overactive mind.
After five straight days of managing passive-aggressive emails and smiling through situations that tested the absolute limits of human sanity, you decided the only cure for this impending mental breakdown was a stiff drink and zero inhibitions on this lovely weekend.
Two shots of whatever was closest, and the company of a man who looked just as desperately in need of a distraction as you, if not more so.
Beautiful was what you initially pegged him as, eyes sweeping along the striking lines of an exhausted face and the stubborn swoop of hair spilling carelessly over his brow. Then you decided he was just prematurely aged. The silver threads catching at his temples and the aggressive shadow of a stubble made him look worn down by a decade of exceptionally bad sleep and even worse stress.
He looked like a man who could fuck good. Looked like he approached sex the exact same way he approached the rest of his miserable life, with unrelenting stamina and a terrifyingly methodical focus designed to dismantle whatever stood before him.
He also looked like an easy target, staring into the amber depths of his glass with a level of sad depression that practically radiated off his shoulders. All it took was you stepping directly into his line of sight, ordering another shot with a dramatic sigh, and offering him a painfully cynical comment about the state of the world (while deliberately showing off your cleavage).
The guarded set of his jaw twitched into the faintest ghost of a smirk.
You offered your name, he offered his (Leon—was it short for Leonard? Leonel?), and he leaned in when you laughed at his terrible attempt at a joke. A genuine chortled laugh because you hadn't expected a dad joke from a man who looked as brooding as he did.
You licked your lips, he followed your tongue.
Hook, line, sinker.
Which explains how you now find yourself trapped in a mating press on a mattress that probably costs more per night than your rent. A dingy, cheap motel would have been your practical choice, but you had noted the expensive gleam of the watch on his wrist within five minutes of sitting next to him. Freaking Hamilton that looked distinctly like a limited edition, judging by the brushed steel and intricate dial.
Frankly, you shouldn't be surprised he carried that much net worth. He’s handsome, weathered beautifully into his age (Late forties? Early fifties?), and clearly paid an exorbitant amount of money to survive whatever horrors are actively ruining his mental health.
What does surprise you is how you’ve underestimated the scope of his physical abilities.
Over the past blurry hour, this complete stranger has effortlessly folded you into positions that defy your understanding of your own flexibility. Knees pressed so securely beside your own ears you start to believe the fee you pay for your weekly reformer pilates class might be a scam.
Apparently what you needed to achieve this level of advanced mobility was the unrelenting dead weight of a very, very capable man. So fucking capable that you’ve genuinely lost count of how many times he’s wrung you out on these expensive sheets.
Four orgasms? Maybe five? Whatever the number is, another one is dangerously crawling up the base of your spine.
Your sanity might be beyond saving at this point. You’re sweating profusely, and the backs of your thighs are screaming in dull protest from being pinned back for god knows how long. Leon pulls out and snaps his hips again with a jarring impact that seems to grow more ruthlessly aggressive with every single grind.
He does it again and again and again until you’re basically screaming from the unavoidable crash of yet another orgasm, toes curling frantically in the suspended air while your nails bite into the heavy muscle of his arms.
This man is something else, obviously nothing akin to the standard parade of disappointing men who talked big but possessed absolutely zero game. They were a flimsy attempt to scratch the very surface of your boredom. Leon, by comparison, is clawing straight down to the bone.
There’s a slowness in his thrusts now, and you blink to find an actual smile breaking through the sweat and exhaustion on his face. The warm puff of a chuckle against your cheek tells you he isn't simply amused. He’s actually entertained.
You huff, making a valiant but entirely useless attempt to mock him, "Stop laughing."
The sweat beading along his heavy brow does absolutely nothing to detract from how devastatingly smug he looks right now. “You’re shaking so much. It’s cute.”
So much for playing the femme fatale act at the bar. He swipes a thumb across your blotchy cheek, courtesy of his rough afternoon shadow.
“You okay?”
You sigh out a harsh breath, blowing a damp strand of hair out of your eyes. “Have you," you manage to wheeze, "even cum yet?”
He shakes his head, blue eyes glinting with unapologetic amusement.
"Are you ever going to?"
His low laughter rumbles warmly in your ears. “Why, you want me to stop already?" he presses a kiss against your jaw. "Thought you were having a good time."
“I’m having a great time.”
“Then what’s with the rush?”
“Maybe we should take a break,” you whine, gasping sharply when the weight of his pelvis rocks aggressively against your lower belly. “I-I need to pee.”
He seems unfazed. Moves like you didn't utter a word to begin with. Instead, what he does is press you even further into the mattress. “Is that right?”
“Fuck—Leon—” You arch your back as he maliciously tilts his hips. “You’re not helping.”
“I actually am,” he argues.
“What—”
“Let's test a theory," he drawls, hot breath ghosting over your pulse. "Do you really think you just need to pee, or are you about to squirt?”
You go completely still for a moment. Considering your track record of thoroughly uninspired hookups and non-lasting relationships, there is absolutely no palpable evidence to suggest you are capable of doing what he’s asking.
“I’m pretty sure I need to pee,” you reason quietly. “I’m not a squirter.”
He pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “You’re telling me you’ve never done that before?”
“I have no prior experience to suggest it's even an option.”
He looks genuinely offended by your answer. “Do you want to try?”
Your head falls back to fully take him in. He really is pretty. Never mind the faint, tired wrinkles bracketing his pale blue eyes, or the harsh features of a man who has clearly seen too much and slept too little. He’s simply too devastatingly gorgeous for his own good.
Even with the fragments of scars you’ve spent the last hour subconsciously counting on his neck, his shoulder, his chest. Scars that make you wonder what kind of terrifying life he leads when he isn't in a hotel room with a stranger, fucking their brains out.
And you’re very much aware you’re one of the few he’s taken to bed.
But is he always this attentive? This generous?
Does he fuck everyone else this hard yet still find the gentle grace to cradle their face and brush the hair out of their eyes?
You instantly hate how territorial you sound. It's wildly hypocritical for someone who values the cheap thrill of a purely physical transaction just as much as he clearly does. He’s just a good lover, you decide. And if tonight is the only night you get to have this man all to yourself, then so be it.
If he thinks he can make you squirt, then who are you to deny?
“You really think I’m about to squirt?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
You frown. “What if it’s just pee?”
He kisses the wrinkled line between your brows. “Make a mess then, I don’t mind.”
Yeah, you’re going to let him absolutely ruin you tonight.
“Then make me squirt, Leon.”
He dips his head, breathing the hot air of his lungs directly into your open mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
Your pussy tightens reflexively at that, which he obviously catches. He catches on to every desperate tell your body gives him, actually. Probably the sole reason why you've already come an embarrassing number of times.
Not enough, apparently, because he’s already moving his hips in rapid rhythms—not too fast or too slow, but enough to have your eyes sliding shut, focusing on the stretch of his cock driving deep in and out of your cunt.
“Fucking beautiful,” he hums, binding your wrists together above your head. “Just lying there looking all pretty."
“H-harder,” you whine, weakly pushing your hips up to meet him.
“Yeah?” He squeezes your wrists together, leaning even more of his massive frame over you. “You like it when I go hard on you?”
Like it? You thrive on it, nodding frantically as your trembling thighs try to lock around his waist. Try is definitely the word when he’s practically flattened you beneath his crushing weight, effortlessly trapping your body. You can feel your limbs turn gooey and powerless, your stomach contrastingly hard.
“I know, baby, I know,” he rasps, ramming his hips harshly against yours. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Ngh—h—”
“That’s it, give it to me. Make a mess on me.”
The panic hits you first, quickly swallowed by an absolute wave of pure heat. Starts as a buzzing ache in your core before violently spiking into an unbearable sensation. Your belly burns, coils, rattles—and you blink your eyes open, brimming with tears. “Leon—”
He instantly reads the panicked clench of your muscles.
“Don't fight it.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
Your groan is feral. “I can’t—”
“Come on, baby, you’ve got to trust me,” he croons softly. “Do you trust me?”
Surprisingly, you do, even if your only judgment on this man comes from the three hours that have passed since you sat down next to him at the bar. “Yes.”
“Good. Then let it happen.”
Your breath stutters. Your body jerks.
“Breathe through your nose.”
He plunges in with a particularly harsh thrust and you gasp. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. “Oh, fuck—”
“That’s it.” He closes the last inch of space between you. Foreheads touching. “Let it go.”
You try to follow his words and suck in a sharp breath. Lungs expanding, ribs flaring, and the rush of oxygen pouring into your blood sharpens every sensation to something blinding.
It’s like a switch. One moment your muscles are tensed, then a passage of whines pitches upward as your orgasm barrels through you without warning. Strong and gut-wrenching. Body hot in bliss and shame—only for two seconds. Quick as it hits, he abruptly pulls out, instantly replacing his cock with two calloused fingers.
Your mouth gapes in a silent scream. Even more so when his offhand curls around your neck. Fingers pressing against the sides of your throat, palm flat against your windpipe, but exercising barely any pressure all the while his fingers fucks your swollen, dripping cunt.
You’ve seen yourself getting wet, you’ve felt yourself getting drenched, but you’ve never experienced anything as wild as this.
Speckles of liquid spatter across the sheets the more he drags his hand in an up-and-down motion, its squelching sound rising above the fight of your labored breathing.
He pushes his palm against your clit.
“Oh fuck! fuckfuckfuck—”
A sudden rush spills over him. Soaks the sheets beneath you in dark patches and streams down the inside of his wrist, seeping hot onto his thighs. He continues to pump his fingers while you lie there—crying openly, violently shuddering. It goes on for what feels like forever until he smoothes out his pressure around your throat, kissing the drool glistening on your lips with a disbelief chuckle.
“Should’ve met you sooner,” he laughs into your mouth, easily slipping his cock back in.
Maybe it’s the bliss completely corrupting your nervous system, or perhaps it’s the overwhelming stretch of his thick cock driving back into your overstimulated cunt. Whatever it is, you completely lose your grip on the casual nature of a one night stand, eager words spilling past your wet lips before you can even screen them.
“Can we meet again?” You pant. “Like—after tonight?”
You’re somewhere right on the edge of a pathetic whimper and a helpless laugh, entirely too pleasured to think straight, dangerously too giddy at the possibility of actually getting to know him. To uncover those scars in daylight, to figure out what kind of hell he had to survive to inherit those devastatingly sad yet kind eyes.
To learn his last name. To unearth his middle.
You gasp when he effortlessly flips you over, twisting his fingers in your hair and pulling it back.
Yeah, you’re going to let him absolutely ruin you tonight—and all the days that follow.
Content: filthy smut, grinding, masturbation, handjob (f receiving), no use of y/n, female reader, dirty talk, praise, semi-public?, improper use of motorcycle
Word Count: ~2k
Summary: I watched Crash (1996) and had a lightbulb moment. Leon gets you off on his motorcycle
A/N: In honor of my birthday (very late, it was the 13th), I treated myself to something deliciously perverted. It took a few days longer than I wanted due to finals (╥ ᴗ ╥)
I might make a part two (¬ᴗ¬)
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 :(
thinkin about a gothic Reader x Dean but it's just the plot of Thoroughfare and reader is the preacher's daughter from a tiny southern town where Sam and Dean had to perform an exorcism on her and she runs away with them...
