This blog is anti-Trump, anti-everyone associated with him, and anti-facist. This blog is run by a bisexual witch who believes everyone should have human rights. This blog supports Black Lives Matter, the LGBTQ+, women’s rights, Palestine, and a united Ireland. All bigotry will result in an immediate block.
My name is Nikki! I’m 26, an INTJ, and a Taurus sun, Leo moon, and Libra rising.
I am currently taking requests, and the links for my masterlist, rules for requesting, characters I write for, and how to be added to a tag list are linked above!
Each fic will have a list of trigger and content warnings that apply for that fic. If I have missed any, feel free to send me a message, ask, or leave a comment with the warning that needs to be added!
Also, unless specified otherwise, all fics are x fem reader. If you want something different, make sure to mention that in your request!
This blog is not safe for minors. MDNI.
This blog is also not safe for Taylor Swift haters🫶🏻
Kat I used to be too shy to ask for this even on anon but life is short so…
Aerion eating his own cum out of LS but from his POV 👀👀👀👀👀👀
no shame in this household. life is too short for that shit ‼️ 18+ mdni. aerion is nasty (nothing new there). oral (f receiving). cum eating. stark!reader. tt!au.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days of you at college, you in your dorm room with your textbooks and your future and your perfect little life that has nothing to do with him.
Fourteen days of his hand on his cock in the dark of his trailer thinking about the sound you make when he bottoms out, and it’s never enough. His own hand is a fucking insult. A rehearsal for a show that never opens.
You get back on a Friday evening, drive straight to his lot without stopping home first, and Aerion knows what that means. Knows it in the animal part of his brain that tracks you like prey even when you’re six hours away.
You missed him badly enough to skip the shower, the unpacking, the performance of arriving home to the Stark house. Skipped being the good princess for an hour before driving to the bad side of town.
You’re barely through the door before he has you.
He fucks you on the mattress with the fitted sheet half pulled off the corner because Aerion hasn’t made the bed in a week. No point. You’re the only reason he bothers. His knees dig into the thin mattress, and your legs are locked around his back, heels pressing into the base of his spine.
You’re still in your skirt. Aerion didn’t take it off, just shoved it up around your hips because he couldn’t wait, couldn’t make himself do the civilised thing and undress you properly.
Fourteen fucking days. He’d been counting. Fucking pathetic.
He comes inside you hard enough that his vision whites out at the edges, his mouth gaping open against your neck, your name chewed up between his teeth.
You follow him few breaths later, clenching around him so tight it hurts. Your nails rake four bright lines down his back that he’ll feel under his shirt at work on Monday, and think about until he has to excuse himself to the bathroom.
For a minute Aerion just stays there. Hips flush against yours, softening inside you, his forehead pressed to the damp curve of your throat. Your fingers are still threaded through his hair, and he hates how good it feels. Hates that he’s panting like he ran a marathon. Hates even more that his hands are shaking where they grip the sheets on either side of your head. Because sex with you is always cataclysmic and he can’t find his way back to anything else after having you.
Clenching his jaw, he pulls out, and watches the glossy length of him slip out.
His cum leaks out of you. The slow, obscene spill of it, pearly white gushing from your swollen cunt, pooling on the ruined sheet beneath you. His. That’s his. Inside you for six hours on the highway, you were thinking of this, and now here it is. Evidence. Proof that you came back. That you always come back. That for all your college friends and your bright future and your Stark name, you still drive six hours to let him ruin you on a shitty mattress with no headboard.
Something hooks behind his ribs. Greed so thick it sits on his tongue like an after taste.
He kicks back and drops between your thighs.
You make a sound. A startled, bitten-off thing that rumbles at the back of your throat, your hand flying to his shoulder. “Aerion, you don’t have to—”
“Shut up.” He snarls it with his mouth an inch from your cunt, his breath ghosting over the mess he left. “I want to.”
He licks into you and the taste hits him like a fist to the throat
Salt and copper and you, the dark sweetness he’d know blindfolded, and underneath it, threaded through, himself. His come mixed with your slick, smeared across his tongue, filling his mouth. It should be disgusting. It is disgusting, objectively, by the standards of anyone who isn’t Aerion Targaryen at ten p.m. on a Friday with his face buried in the cunt of the only woman he has ever loved.
He groans against your heat. A real sound, pulled from somewhere low and primitive inside him. The vibration makes you jolt, your fingers fisting in his hair, and he feels your thighs twitch against his ears.
You’re oversensitive because you just came. Every lick makes you flinch and gasp and try to close your legs. He holds you open with both hands, thumbs pressed into the crease of your thighs, forcing you open, and keeps going.
He’s greedy about it, lapping at you sloppy and wet, his tongue dragging through the mess of them both, and the taste gets thicker the deeper he pushes. Aerion fucks his tongue into you, and feels the slick heat of his own come coat his chin. Pulls back and sees it glistening on his mouth and doesn’t wipe it off.
You’re peering down at him. Mouth parted, swollen. Your hand is still in his hair, gripping hard enough to sting, and your chest is heaving. The skirt is bunched around your waist. One shoe is still on. You look like a wrecked perfect princess, so very expensive, and completely fucking his.
“You’re disgusting,” you breathe, a laugh rumbling in your throat.
Aerion grins against your cunt, sucking your clit into his mouth and hollows his cheeks around it until you arch off the mattress, a sharp cry punched out of you.
Yeah. He is.
He’s disgusting and he’s starving and you taste like coming home, and the thing about him is that he’s never known when to stop.
Not with pills, not with fights, not with you. Especially not with you. He slides two fingers back into you alongside his tongue and crooks them forward, and the sound you make is close to a snarl.
Good. He wants the snarl. He wants you leaking and so overstimulated you forget your own name. He wants to lick every trace of himself out of you and swallow it down and then fuck you again so he can do it twice.
The closed circuit of it is what gets him.
His come, your cunt, his mouth. The ouroboros of it, the consuming.
He put himself inside you and now he’s taking it back and the taste will live on his tongue for days. He’ll be under a car on Monday licking his lips and tasting you still, tasting you both, and no one will know. The mechanics, the customers, the whole decent world going about its business. And him walking through it with the taste of his own come and your in his mouth like communion wine.
You come a second time with a sound he’ll replay until he’s dead. A broken, shuddering thing, your back bowed, both hands in his hair pulling hard enough that his eyes water.
Your cunt pulses against his tongue, and he tastes the fresh wave of you, sharper now, headier, less of him and more of you. Aerion chases it with his mouth until you’re pushing at his forehead, gasping stop, stop, I can’t—
He doesn’t stop. He gives you one more lick, slow and hungry, root to clit, sucking, and feels your whole body shudder.
Only then does he pull back. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Glances at you.
You’re destroyed. Boneless against his pillow, eyes glassy, skin shining with sweat. Your skirt is still scrunched up around your hips. The shoe finally fell off at some point. There’s a bite mark on your thigh he doesn’t remember leaving and a bruise forming on your hip from his thumb.
Aerion crawls up your body, settles his weight on you, pins you beneath him. Drops his mouth to your ear.
“Miss me?” he murmurs, hot breath tickling your ear.
You laugh. Weak, breathless, almost fond. Your arms come around his neck, fingernails scratching at the nape of his neck.
“You’re vile,” you tell him.
He kisses you. Deep and open, letting you taste it. Both of you. The whole filthy circuit on his tongue, pushed into your mouth, and you kiss him back without hesitating, equally as starved. Your tongue slides against his, one hand against his face, and you taste what he tastes and neither of you flinches.
“Yeah,” he breathes against your lips, voice rough, leaning down to press his open mouth against yours. “missed you too, princess.”
the thought of playfighting with bb 🤤🤤🤤 he seems so serious about attacking entities and it’s such a job for him that i think he’d adoreee getting all silly and touchy with companion 🙏 and imagining it after he’s been chasing her too !!!
the first time you shove him he doesn’t move. obviously.
you put both hands on his chest and push and he just stands there, blinking at you with that confused furrow. because you’ve applied force to him, and the force was not effective and he’s now concerned you might be malfunctioning.
“fight me,” you demand.
“…no?”
“BB. fight me.”
“I don’t want to fight you.” genuinely distressed now. his eyes scan you for injuries, for signs of possession, for any reason his beloved might be requesting combat. “are you—is something—“
and you have to explain. it takes a minute. you have to walk an ancient predator through the concept of roughhousing. play. physical affection disguised as aggression. like pack animals.
you shove him again for emphasis and bb’s hands come up automatically to catch your wrists and you grin at him, and go “see? like that” and something clicks behind the blue eyes.
and then he loves it.
because you’re so cute. that’s the core of it, really. you’re slapping at his chest and biting his arm, squirming in his grip like you could actually get free if you tried hard enough and you can’t (you absolutely can’t) he could hold you still with one hand and a passing thought. but your face is scrunched up with real effort, and you’re growling at him, you’re actually growling, and his chest is so full of adoration he could choke on it.
you catch on fast that you can weaponise this.
you learn where the line is between play and play, and you get mean with it on purpose.
you bite harder. you scratch. you lean up and hiss something sharp against his ear, a taunt, a challenge, and you feel it happen… the shift. that low rumble replacing the purr. the frequency dropping from amused to older and heavier, the vibration changing texture in his chest. and the loving softness melts off his expression like frost off a window and underneath it is that predator shine, that flat black-edged stare, the grin pulling too wide.
there you are, you think, and it thrills you. every time.
you two wrestle through the nest like animals. blankets everywhere. pillows destroyed. he lets you win for a few seconds at a time, lets you pin his wrist or straddle his chest, crow about your victory snugly before he flips you like you weigh nothing and pins you flat with both wrists above your head, his body heavy on yours. his face is inches away. and the mockery on his tongue is soft, that low, amused murmur: “oh, you almost had me that time. so close. very scary.”
and you lift your chin. wrists pinned, chest heaving, completely trapped. and you stretch up and press the softest, sweetest kiss to his mouth. barely a brush. just your lips on his and the grin dissolves and the black bleeds out of his eyes and BB flooding back in, all warmth and want. that needy, desperate rush of tenderness crashing through the predator like a wave through a sandcastle.
his grip on your wrists goes slack. his breath stutters. his whole body softens against yours because you kissed him and the kissing is always his undoing, every single time, the gentleness after the roughness short-circuiting every ancient instinct he has. because you’re his love, and your mouth makes all the loving, protective instincts flare to life.
and in that half-second of melted composure you twist free. roll out from under him. hit the floor running top speed.
you’re through the apartment door and sprinting down the corridor barefoot, cackling before he’s even lifted his head, and behind you there’s a beat of silence, just one, and then that low, dark chuckle rolling down the hallway after you like smoke. pleased. impressed. delighted.
“oh,” he says, and you can hear the grin in it. “oh, that was good.”
his footsteps start. slow. unhurried. that casual lethal stroll.
you’re not going to make it far. you never do. but the chase is the whole point and you both know it, and somewhere in the nest behind you there’s a pile of destroyed blankets and a dent where you were pinned and this, this, this stupid silly reckless game of bite and shove and run and catch…. this is the happiest he’s ever been.
not the quiet adoration or the worship. this. you choosing to play with the thing in the dark. you teaching it that teeth can be gentle and fighting can be a love language and the corridor doesn’t always have to end in fear and death.
he’s going to catch you in about thirty seconds and the catching is going to involve pinning you to the nearest wall and kissing you until your knees give out, then he’s going to carry you back to the nest like his greatest prize.
I’m back on my Louis Tomlinson bullshit (never left) and I just gotta say:
If you’re tagging your Niall, Liam, Harry, and/or Zayn works as Louis x reader, you’re annoying and I hope your favorite fic is stopped at a cliffhanger and never gets updated again😭there is no reason why, out of the first 20 fics that pop up under Louis Tomlinson x reader, OVER HALF of them aren’t even about him
Reasons to boycott Nolan's The Odyssey (that I know of so far):
They shot in the illegally occupied Western Sahara as reported by Middle East Eye (thanks to @fuckyeahdavidandyonatan for bringing that up)
They dumped their props into a protected area of the Italian sea after shooting (thanks to @godslop for finding the article in English)
Zendaya wearing looted 3000 years old Iranian earrings for the premiere of the movie + having her stylist fly on a private jet just to get her a dress for the premiere in London
No Greek actors in a movie about Greek heritage
While people mentioned that Anne Hathaway was flown in to the set every day, apparently it was not on a private jet but on a helicopter that was being used anyway to fly in equipment.
None of these things are new in Hollywood or exclusive to the Odyssey, its director or its actors, but I do think we as audience should start holding Hollywood accountable when it disrespects our culture, heritage, environment, especially when it's movies that are this big and have a huge budged that would allow for more conscious choices.
they should invent a high ponytail that doesn’t give me a headache and they should invent a low ponytail that doesn’t make me look like a miller’s apprentice going off to enlist in the continental army
Hey kat. Hope I don't discussion you about tt aerion, but does he eat ls out when she s on her period ???
aerion doesn't have boundaries with you. they’re the biggest freaks on my roster for a reason. he just doesn't have them (or you, for that matter). that's not how he's built. you are his, every single day of the month, and some blood isn't going to make him flinch. if anything it makes him worse. because you're sore and snappy. you've got that particular brand of meanness about you that only comes out when you're cramping and miserable, and he takes one look at that attitude and decides the only appropriate response is to fuck it out of you. naturally.
it starts as a fight. it always starts as a fight with him. you're in one of his t-shirts on the couch and he crowds you and you shove at his chest and tell him to fuck off, you're not in the mood for his bullshit antics, and he just… doesn't budge. pins your wrists. gets his mouth on your neck and feels the way your thighs press together and he knows. that animal awareness you have of each other. like one organism. he pulls back with that horrible, pleased little grin.
“you're bleeding.”
and you tell him to get off you. and he says he's not afraid of a little blood, princess. says he can feel how hot you are through the shorts. says you need him to fuck the cramps out of you since you're going to be a bitch about it either way. and the worst part is that he's not wrong. the orgasm does help, and he knows it, and he holds that over your head like a taunt.
he doesn't hesitate, doesn’t wrinkle his nose (he honestly would with anyone else, but you he needs to consume). goes down on you like it's nothing, like it's any other night, and when you try to squirm away he holds your hips down. tells you to quit moving. comes back up with blood on his mouth and licks his lips slowly, and you want to kill him and fuck him in equal measure and he knows that too.
afterwards he's genuinely unbearable. smug doesn't even begin to cover it. pulls you into his lap, rubs your stomach and calls you princess in that awful, soft voice he only uses when he's being an asshole. and if you try to thank him or acknowledge that it helped he gets mean about it again (don't get sentimental on me, stark) because god forbid he let a tender moment exist for longer than four seconds.
okay so just read your fic for bobby's kinks and had a thought
since we know sex is a big thing for bobby, what would he do with a girlfriend that isn't super into sex? maybe she's had a lot of bad experiences and doesn't like sexual stuff/doesn't get turned on/does it to appease him but isn't rly into it? would it cause arguments or would he adjust?
this is a really interesting question and I had to seriously think about it so thank you for sending it in!!!
so, his first reaction is arguably the worst one, and it's not frustration/anger. it's withdrawal.
because bobby's brain doesn't hear "I'm not super into sex." bobby's brain hears "you were too much. you wanted too openly. you showed yourself like an idiot and she flinched back., and now she'sgonnaleaveandyou'llbealone-" and you watch the shutters come down in real time. that warm, tactile, grabby version of him that reaches for you without thinking with a big, stupid grin... he pulls it back. packs it away.
the touches get less frequent. the dirty talk dries up. he stops initiating entirely and overcompensates with distance because if he can't love you with his body then he doesn't know how to love you at all and he'd rather give you nothing than give you the version that makes you uncomfortable/might hurt you.
and that's actually the cruelty of it. because we've established that sex for bobby is not just about sex. it's not just about getting off. it's the one language he's fluent in when every other form of emotional expression has a lock on it.
when he's inside you and you're making those sounds and your hands are in his hair gripping him close, that's him saying I love you in the only way that doesn't terrify him. it's "I get to make you feel good and it's me, I did that, I'm the reason your body feels like this. do you see how much I want you?" and when that channel closes, he doesn't just lose a physical outlet. he loses his whole vocabulary alongside with it.
so yeah. he's quietly sad in a way he'd never show you because showing you would be pressure, and pressure would be selfish. bobby might be emotionally avoidant idiot but he's not cruel.
he'd rather swallow it than make you feel guilty for something you can't help.
and if you don't explain (if you just let the distance grow) it will become a problem.
not arguments exactly tbh. just erosion. that slow, quiet pulling-apart where neither person is fighting but both people are lonely. he'll convince himself he was always too much for you. you'll convince yourself he's losing interest.
two wrong conclusions running parallel, never intersecting, doing damage the whole time.
but. if you explain, if you sit him down and tell him it's not him, it's not about him. it's something you carry from before him, from experiences that wired your body to associate this thing with danger or discomfort instead of pleasure, he genuinely listens.
and you can see the relief flood through him. not because the situation is magically fixed but because it's not rejection of who he is. it's information. and bobby can work with information.
and he tries. genuinely and clumsily, but with his whole chest. he redirects all that physical energy into touch that isn't sexual. his hand on the back of your neck while you watch a movie. pulling your feet into his lap on the couch. neck kisses that last a beat too long. playing with your hair until you fall asleep.
he learns a new dialect of the only language he knows and it's harder for him, you can see the effort in it. the way his hand lingers on your hip and then deliberately moves to your waist instead because he's checking himself, trying to love you loud enough that you hear it without crossing the line you need him to respect.
would he always struggle?
yeah, honestly. not because he resents you, never that, but because his body speaks a language your body doesn't want to hear right now and holding that back takes real conscious effort every single day on his part.
there are moments he aches with it. moments he excuses himself to the bathroom and grips the sink and breathes because you were curled against him and you smelled so good and he wanted you so fucking badly and the wanting had nowhere to go.
but he does it. because bobby is a lot of broken things but he loves you more than he loves being understood, and if loving you right means learning a whole new way to say it, he'll learn. even if badly at first.
and on the rare occasions you do want it, when the stars align and you feel safe enough and you reach for him first, he doesn't pounce. he goes slow. so painfully slow. checking in. watching your face. asking with his eyes every few seconds is this still okay, are you still here with me. and if you pull back he stops instantly and pulls you against his chest and presses his mouth to your hair and says nothing because nothing needs to be said.
Welcome To The Shit Show @hllywdwhre - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
