#alli's recs

[be-my-ally]

A Little More Action Please

woah it's been a while. I won't pretend this is anything more than simple smutty fic - it's not the same universe, but not dissimilar to my suspicious minds one-shots - stand alone p without plot one-shots.

Here's a 1969-70 Elvis fic about the opening night parties for Nancy Sinatra's shows - either occasion can be imagined here but I've placed it within the '69 party. OC reader - 'you' x Elvis in an established relationship.

warnings: afab reader x elvis, p in v sex, fingering, slightly cringy arguments.

wc: 4103

I've used my last taglist from the last fic I posted, but since that was literally months (a year???) ago it may be way outdated now! - I deleted any that seemed to be deactivated - idk how much I'll be posting but if you desperately want to be tagged whenever I upload lmk.

Las Vegas 1969 

Elvis’ been stressed lately. It didn’t come out at you, so much as it seemed to just come out all the damn time, and it was made worse by the fact he wouldn’t share what it was that was so displeasing him; hurried talks with his father and the Colonel that didn’t ever seem to be shared. He’d had a lot on his plate, the rehearsals for his own show, the last minute concerns about how his serious film would be received.  Yet despite the rough edge to him he’d been more like how you remember him being described before you knew him - self-confident and assured. He was worried about how the film or show would be received - sure, but not how he would be. Totally unlike the nerves that have been festering in the background of the past few years.  Even though tonight has literally nothing to do with him he’s somehow made it feel like a celebration; a culmination of the week, of the month, of the reintroduction of Elvis at his most confident. His own performances have been a glorious success, those first few audiences lapping up the palpable relief in the atmosphere, a giddying sort of joy found in everyone - and most of all, him.

You watch him working the room, effortlessly it seems, and you wonder how he does it; he’s so good at it, naturally too - there’s nothing false or forced about it. He laughs just the right amount, even when it’s clear the joke isn’t funny, knows exactly when to interject, when to move on. It spins your head watching him and you’re envious of his ease. It’s not as easy for you - it’s still a fairly new environment; you’d barely been out of Tennessee before this month and with it comes all the nerves and anxiety of the first time. It reminds you of the first time you’d been invited into Graceland, being so very unsure of what to do - what the protocol was, and yet thrust in - excitement fluttering in your stomach dancing with the nerves. The last few nights had been fun, he’d barely left your side and it had all felt so romantic, so exciting, as he took you to the other shows, showing you Vegas, showing you off to what felt like the whole world. 

You glance over at him again across the room, where his palm still rests on her back, her delicate laughter echoing across to you. She looks like a fairy in white, bright blonde hair dazzling in the light. His thumb moves on her back, and you can feel it as if he’s touched you himself. You blink, considering the situation. Perhaps you can blame the alcohol, you don’t normally drink this much. Maybe there’s no need to blame anything. Maybe it’s just understandable that with your boyfriend ignoring you you’d take the opportunity to talk to interesting people without him hovering over you. Yet as you loudly laugh again at her father, drink spilling out of your champagne flute, you feel the slightest tendril of guilt take hold around your chest. 

Elvis turns, as if sensing you, with that look of mild distaste that you’ve grown accustomed to making your stomach twist even though it’s not normally aimed at you. Eyes narrowing even as the smile remains on his face. Your giggles subside, and you regretfully remove your hand from where it was daintily resting on Frank’s elbow. You act as if you didn’t notice or feel his glare, smoothing the soft cling of your dress down and politely excusing yourself. 

The bathroom, as always at these kinds of events, is not the place of solitude you would like it to be, girls patting their already poreless pale faces with more pale powder, and gossiping to one another, lips sticky from touch-ups pressing kisses onto coupe glasses. Yet, eventually, they file out and with a pointed look and nod from you, and a tiny bit of cash, the bathroom attendant follows - shutting the door behind herself. You lock the door. 

You look at yourself in the mirror, heavy makeup under strangely bright lights for a powder room making you look like a child that had stolen their mother’s make-up. It was all far, far more than you’d usually apply. Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you tremble, biting your lip - desperate not to cry and ruin it more than the sweat already has. You don’t even know why you’re so stressed - nothing had been said, you’d not made a fool of yourself but it was like all the days and nights out of your comfort zone were catching up at once as you stood there. 

“Get a grip,” You sing-whisper to yourself, “he won’t invite you next time, if you don’t get a goddamn grip,” as you lazily splash cold water onto your wrists. Wondering if you pretended to be nonchalant for long enough that you might actually become it. The doorknob rattles and you pause, still as a statue - like the prey of a predator, as though the intruder could see you through the door unless you stood still enough. 

You breathe a sigh of relief when it stops before an insistent knock takes it place. You stay silent, hoping they’d just go away. It wasn’t like there wasn’t another bathroom option just down the hallway.  That fails and after another aggressive knock your voice shakes when you shout back that you’ll be right out. 

“It’s me.” You feel your eyebrows rise in surprise at him coming to find you, had you really been that long? You struggle to think if he’s ever come to find you if you separated away from the main crowd at a gathering. 

“I’ll - I’ll be out in a second.” 

“Just let me in - quick, ‘fore someone sees.” The last half of the sentence is muffled, as if Elvis has placed his face to the door, keen not to be overheard. The panic his whisper inspires was enough for you to unthinkingly throw open the door, even though a rational part of your brain was telling you there was no need to stress, and wondering what the issue would be with someone seeing him waiting in a hallway. He saunters in as if he was never worried anyway, peering around like he was curious to see the inside.

“What’re you doin’ all holed up in here?” He frowns, looking at you like you were a child who’d wandered off.  You laugh, attempting to mimic her delicate way - like something bouncing off glass, but it falls flat and you internally flinch.  

“Noth-nothing, I was just, it was just a bit overwhelming s’all. I needed a break for a minute. I was just on my way out again.” You feel the redness creeping up your chest to your cheeks; you don’t even really understand why you’re so embarrassed but you are. He shakes his head, clicking his tongue, and it annoys you enough that somehow you become brave enough to stutter out the rest of your thoughts, “I don’t much like you lookin’ at me like that though.” 

He shuts the door behind him, locking it again, “What’dya mean?” He says in a tone that means he knows exactly what you mean, “I’ve not been in here, why would I be lookin’ at you like anything?” 

“You know what you’re doing.” He has the same face that you were just describing, a kind of patronising bemusement. “You’re looking at me, and making me feel like I’ve done something wrong when I haven’t.” You repeat yourself when he doesn’t respond,”I haven’t!” He hums ignoring you, and steps forward to examine his own face in the mirror. He shakes out his collar, straightening it back against his neck. “Elvis, I’m serious! You’re not, you’re not being nice - it’s not fair to make me feel like I’m in the wrong!” He sighs, turning to look at you rather than at your reflections, tugging you towards him with a grip on your wrist. He looks down at the counter while his thumb strokes your pulse-point like a little boy scuffing his shoe across the floor. 

“Y’were laughing.”  You feel like laughing now, it’s all so predictable - that’s what he was glaring about?

“Elvis, that’s…that’s ridiculous. I thought you were way past this - this weird hang up you have with him.” He scoffs, 

“What?” You hope he acts better than this in his new film, “I don’t care who! But, jus’, you never laugh with me at the moment.” You roll your eyes at his very obvious lie, 

“Oh my lord Elvis, he’s… he’s very charming - you know that! But he’s, he’s, I don’t know,  fifty or something!” He pulls you in closer, 

“Y’sayin’ you don’t like old men baby? Forgettin’ how old I am?” Elvis rubs both of his hands up your arms, making you sink into the sensation even as you internally laugh at his predictability. 

“You’re barely thirty Elvis. Don’t be silly.” 

“ ‘m thirty-four baby.” You roll your eyes, used to his over exaggeration of his age. 

“Exactly.” 

“Well, yeah, but you’re just a young lil thing ain’t ya?” His fingers crawled up your arms, to tickle under your chin, “Just a little bitty baby. Lil’ bitty baby girl.” 

You can feel yourself melting into the baby talk, exactly as he intended it, can sense the unlikely but underlying apology. But, he’s riled you up enough that you don’t want to just accept it. You tut, shaking your head away from his hand. 

“Well sure, but so’s Nancy. You weren’t wasting time ‘catching up’ with her were you?” He’s stunned for a second, blinking at you, and if you were going to back-track, now is your last chance. 

“Now hold on a moment,” He shakes his head, tone hardening, “It is her party, baby. I gotta be pol-” 

“I mean, the whole time you’re there with Nancy - I’m there with Frank, being polite. It’s a double standard El!” He leans back, 

“No, no, no, because she invite-“ 

“You oughta be thanking me! Keeping him distracted from having to watch you sniffing around her! And God, fuckin’ Tina too! and who knows who else!” He steps back, dropping your arms completely. 

“You gonna talk to me like that?” 

“If the goddamn shoe fits Elvis.” 

“I’m just doin’ what I gotta do, and you have no right,” He’s talking through gritted teeth, hissing it at you, “No fuckin’ right to tell me what I can or can’t do. I knew you couldn’t handle it - knew this would all be too much for you out here. But you insisted! You promised you’d come out here and behave for me.” He shakes his head, “I swear - I’ll fuckin’ send you back home to Memphis,” You roll your eyes and he jabs a finger at you, “I swear to god you needta stop being so, so - fucking naive.” He’s really getting going now, “I swear, you’re just -” You cut him off before he can say anything else, muttering, 

“Yeah well - maybe I want to go.” 

“If you’re gonna talk like that to me, you can at least be brave ‘nough to make sure I can hear you -“

“I said! Maybe it ain’t a threat if I wanna go.” He sucks a breath through his teeth,  “Maybe I’m sick and tired of you gettin’ all the fucking fun” He flinches - hates it when you swear, “Tired of watching you gettin’ to fool around and now I want my turn? You ever consider that?” You think about stopping for a brief second, sensing his quiet wasn’t because he was calming down, but now that you’re having it out you really can’t help wanting to push that tiny bit further now. “Maybe I was flirting with Frank fucking Sinatra. Maybe! Maybe I was doing it to make someone else jealous - you ever consider that El?” He opens his mouth and you speed up talking, the rest of the words tumbling out of your mouth at record speed before he can interrupt you, “That maybe that wasn’t even you. Maybe there was someone other than you lookin’ at me.” 

You jump as his fist makes contact with the countertop. You manage to gain enough control of yourself despite your jackhammering heartbeat to watch impassively as his fingers rapidly begin to swell up from the dense tile. “Now look what you’ve done.”

“Goddamn, look what I’ve done?” He’s roaring at you, and you wince at the finger jabbing into your chest. “You- you stand there, humiliatin’ me, lookin’ like that and I swear to god above baby, I’ll kill whoever was lookin’ at you I swear to god, we go out there and you point ‘em out to me, and I’ll fuckin’ kill them.” You don’t point out the irony that he had dressed you for this evening, he’s rubbing his swelling fingers as seems to lose steam “And, and - I’ll, I swear -  you thinkin’ about leavin’ me?” You think about keeping it up a little longer, and really you know you should be considering it more seriously, but you also don’t want to leave him. 

“No.” He nods, self-satisfied, fingers still caressing his bruised knuckles. He takes a breath in. 

“See - exactly. You’re just tryin’ get a rise outta me. ‘S not nice. That’s not - nice girls don’t do that baby, they don’t do that.” You hum, 

“Maybe I’m not nice.” He snorts, 

“Nah, you’re not bad jus’, jus’ all riled up,” He turns you with a grip on your upper arm to be leaning against the counter, pushing you to the edge until you get the message and hop up onto it. His hands knead your legs, and the metal of the bands around his fingers brushes you, his sleeve tickling the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “Getting me all riled up, s’not nice.” He huffs it as he leans into you, gripping the back of your neck to pull your lips onto his. It’s intense and hungry, and you can’t remember the last time you felt desperation like this, craving more of him. Your hands come up to finger into his hair, clutching at the slippery-soft strands as he takes total and absolute control of the kiss, of your mind and body. Your head falls back when he pulls away, breathless. 

He’s grinning at you when he leans back - that smug little smile on his face that makes you want to storm off or smack him, but instead you give in to your other urge. Gripping the pointy edge of his collar in one hand, your other comes up to clutch at him, freshly trimmed sideburns tickling your palm.

 He lets you kiss him, pressing kisses onto his chin, his cheek, his lips. You can’t seem to get close enough to satisfy yourself, and your legs wrap around his waist, the skirt of your dress rising up. Elvis’ fingers press into your thighs as he holds you down onto the counter, and you squirm as the heat builds. He huffs a little laugh even as he leads the kiss again, biting down on the edge of too hard on your bottom lip. You slide back with the force of it until you’re leaning, head against the mirror, and he leans against you while he unbuttons his jacket - roughly throwing it open as much as possible, and you try to lean forward, to shove it down his arms - get it off now. But you’re distracted by the way it pulls his already unbuttoned shirt lower down, and by him moving to rapidly finger open another several buttons, his chest unveiling itself. He’s tan and lean, and you can’t do anything but stare for a second. There’s a thin layer of hair leading lower and you find your hands moving of their own accord. They explore his chest and you feel it move with each inhale and exhale of breath he takes, feel how his intake stutters for a second when you twist his nipple. 

Your hands get in the way of him taking anything off further, and he has to shove you off of him to hastily unbuckle his belt and untuck his silky shirt. He doesn’t bother to take it off - leaving it hanging off of him. Elvis leans back, bitten lips slightly puffy, lipstick smudged across his cheeks and you can’t imagine what your own face looks like or how he’ll go back to the party, but most of the red seems to smear across your own skin as he brings his head back down to your chest, sucking a bruise that you already know your thin halter dress, that’s currently been so carelessly pushed to one side, won’t cover. 

Elvis’ hands roam over you, long fingers of one hand gripping your neck to hold you steady, the other shifting to brush against your skin until his fingertips are dancing over your breast. He sinks down further, light kisses pressing onto you - past his own hand to your lower sternum, before leaning back for a moment.  You gasp as he suddenly tugs you to be barely balanced on the edge of the counter, his hands holding you up as much as they hold you down. Your own hands have to fly back to support yourself to be upright enough to watch him, resting on your elbows. He bends down and you can’t help the whine coming from your mouth at his fingertips inching closer to your inner thigh, how he shoves your dress even further up and out of the way. Elvis moves lower, crouching further down until he’s eye level with your spread legs. 

“Gotta be quiet, honey,” He mutters it against your thigh, his breath tickling as he mouths at your sensitive skin there, “Keep quiet baby, you can do it, that’s it, that’s right -” You can feel him grinning at you, at the way your leg twitches and your attempts at stifling the noises coming out of your mouth, 

“That -oh fuck, Jesus - that tickles - god Elvis,” He shakes his head, knocking against your knees, 

“Gotta watch that mouth, honey, … haveta wash it out if you keep that up.” You can feel him grinning against you and you groan, swearing again, “The mouth on you baby,” You roll your eyes at the irony considering where his was currently nibbling at the crease of your inner thigh, cheek against the lace of your underwear. He leans back for a brief second and you find the words to respond, 

“The mouth - El - the mouth on me?” He chuckles, and he moves forward, head disappearing between your thighs and you tense as you anticipate his lips, his tongue, his breath, anything, on you. You tremble, relaxing and tensing again in quick succession, hips moving at the damp feeling of his hot breath against the fabric, waiting for him to touch. But it never comes. “Elvis!” He moves his hand further up to nestle in the fold of your hip as he stands himself upright again. 

“Don’t have time for that, honey, not right now, gotta - we gotta get a move on,” You nod, resigned, about to stand up yourself, “Where d’ya think you’re going?” You blink, a little dazed and confused - heart pounding. 

“Y-you said we hadta -”

“I can’t go out there like this,” He gestures down at himself, his shirt undone, belt unbuckled, and his trousers straining to hold the bulk of him.  He makes it sound so obvious, and then delicately, like a tease, “But we can’t stay here all night -“ You shake your head, playing along;

“So - So, what should we do?” Elvis doesn’t respond with words, but he moves closer again, spreading your legs further apart to accommodate the bulk of him between them. 

Finally, finally, his fingers slip up to the apex of your thighs. He presses against the damp fabric of your underwear, pressing the sticky lace against you, there’s a slight irritation as it catches on your hair and you squirm at the sensation. At the feeling of the slide and the stickiness. 

“Fuck baby, you’re… fuck, s’that what…thats what he’s done to you?” You shake your head, even as his eyes twinkle at you, 

“No, no, it’s, god - it’s you El, Elvis, it’s - I’ve never felt like this for anyone else.” 

“That right, huh,” He’s slimmer than one, or two years ago, and it’s weird that you can feel the difference in his fingers, but he’s sure of himself oh so sure of himself as he uses a single finger to stroke down the centre of your labia.  He presses his finger against your folds, his thumb rapidly moving higher up and your hips jerk with it, grounding circles though you can’t move far with his grip on your thigh and you whine as he shoves your underwear to the side, undoubtedly stretching them beyond repair and slides his pointer and middle finger in to you, bending them just so.

He pulls away and you pant, but at last he’s unbuttoning his trousers, the last button holding his body from yours, and there’s nothing delicate about it anymore as Elvis slams into you. Your eyes close in anticipation as you expect to bump your head on the mirror, the force of him pushing you to slip across the smooth tile of the counter, but his hands pull you back to him, rocking you back and forth onto him. You’re embarrassingly close, and a swipe of his fingers, along with a slight change of angle is enough to make you shudder satisfactorily if not overwhelmingly. 

He’s evidently close too as he jack-hammers into you, and your hands, now knowing you don’t need to support yourself, clutch at his shoulders, watching the dim lighting bounce across his glistening bronzed chest and face - mouth open as he finishes. He stays curled over you for a moment as he catches his breath. 

Elvis pulls away, grabbing the hand towel from the side and wiping himself off. He does it so matter of factly that it’s almost humiliating, making your tummy flip. 

He rinses his hands, shaking them out before buttoning and buckling himself back up. 

“Yer being foolish out there. Makin’ a scene.”  He gathers himself further, slicking his hand with a little running water and pushing back his edges. Other than his bitten lips and hint of red high on his cheekbones he looks astonishingly put together again but you’re still in a daze on the counter, your legs spread next to him, panties aside. He looks over at you. 

“I’m goin’ back out.” You nod shakily, 

“I’ll, I’ll be out in a minute.” 

Elvis’ face hardens, lips pressed tightly together again. He shakes his head, “You’re going to bed.” You’re outraged, legs slamming shut as you sit upright. 

“Well yes sir,” you salute sarcastically, “You can’t just declare that I have to do something and I have to jump to d -” He smirks, eyebrow raising and you can feel the heat rising again up your face in annoyance at his patronising expression, “I’m not a child - you can’t send me to my room like a child Elvis.” You make it a statement as if that will stop him from debating it further. His whole facial expression changes, clearly no longer finding your dissidence amusing. 

“I fuckin’ can. You ain’t goin’ back out there lookin’ like that - so you can either go to bed, or you can go straighta the airport.” He roughly pulls you off the counter, turning you to stare in the mirror and you have to take in the image of yourself, bruises bitten onto the skin above your neckline, skirt hitched and thighs marked, your eyeliner running, lipstick smeared. 

“I’ll..I’ll go to bed.” He nods satisfied, slapping your ass, 

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls you into his arms, “I’ll be up soon, you just hang tight till then right?” You nod back at him, and he takes a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at your cheeks. “Just, just gotta - there. Try not to be seen?” You nod in agreement again, having seen yourself you had no interest in a photo being taken of your current state even if you dread him going back out there alone, the inevitable photos of him laughing, looking at someone else. 

taglist: @lookingforrainbows @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen  @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny, @doll-elvis @18lkpeters @prompted-wordsmith @richardslady121 @meetmeatyourworst @marriedtopresley @elvisabutler @eliseinmemphis @literally-just-elvis-fics @livelaughlove-talia @angelborn1 @amydarcimarie @peskybedtime @shakerattlescroll @i-r-i-n-a-a @saintomie @missmaywemeetagain @ooihcnoiwlerh @from-memphis-with-love @dkayfixates

[arcane-fox]

These are some PPCU fics I have read and enjoyed this past month. Some new. Some Old. All have smut. Please show them some love. Read all warnings! Not everything is for everyone and that is ok. Please always comment AND reblog fics you enjoy to show love to the authors 🖤

Joel Miller

Restraint // @frannyzooey Sequel to Squirming, Implied age/experience gap

Men Like Me // @lokischocolatefountain Joel's warnings about what men like him would do to girls like you only makes you want him more.

Take Me To Florida // @thetriumphantpanda Turning up on his doorstep covered in blood was not was Joel had expected of you, and when you open your mouth, he expects it even less. There's a shitstorm in Texas you both have to escape from, but how long can it last?

An Honest Mistake // @iamasaddie Swiping left and right on tinder, you think you match with Joel Miller, a handsome single dad in his late 30s. Feeling enamored and horny you decide to meet in person, only to be met with an almost completely different person. BONUS REC: Chapter 2 was just posted!

Rough Comfort // @pascalsailor You should be hurt, heartbroken, even that after such a good relationship your boyfriend has turned into a grade-a piece of shit. Yet you just couldn’t find it in you to be all that upset, specifically because an unexpected comfort comes in the form of his father, Joel miller, and his rough hands.

Bad Doctor // @toxicanonymity “Hey, not a lot of doctors will tell ya this, but cock is one of the best things you can put in your body.” He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head forward like he’d just let you in on a secret.

Clint and Joel

Lucky You // @aurorawritestoescape A usual evening with your boyfriend Clint and his best friend Joel turns into a night full of lust and ecstasy - Or - Clint and Joel go down on you.

Joel and Tommy

Trapped // @milla-frenchy and @aurorawritestoescape You run out of gas in the middle of nowhere at night. A stranger comes to help. DDDNE

Training Day // @koshkamartell You get more than you bargained for after trying to make Joel jealous. DDDNE

General Acacius

The Heat of the Thermae // @gothcsz You’re not alone tonight at your favorite bathhouse.

Tim Rockford

Wrong Number // @604to647 Detective Tim Rockford receives an unexpected text after leaving for work.

Frankie and Santiago

Two Man Job // @sin-djarin Santi has a new house and new plan to go alongside it. He needs Frankie’s assistance to start making it a home. But Frankie needs a helping hand, too.

ICYMI (Previous Fic Recs): December | January | February | March | April

Banner by me / Dividers by @saradika 🖤

[exhaustedpirate]

tommy offers buck a bumper sticker he finds in a novelty shop two months before the breakup, buck loves it

it's also how tommy knows that buck's car is involved in an accident

[gullemec]

Finally got a chance to read this and I'm SO glad I did!! Absolutely loved all the banter and their relationship, the way you show little bits of softness in amongst his gruffness 🥺 and don't even get me started on the smut lmao 🤪

10/10 please write more

┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━• ❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃ •━━┛

❝ Scout’s Honour ❞

⤷ Word count: a lot

!! 18+ ONLY !!

Pls imagine he has his sexy beard in these gifs

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WARNINGS:

Billy x fem!reader, cussing, very mild angst, smut, fingering, oral f receiving, unprotected sex p in v (wrap it pls), cock-warming, lmk if I forgot any

SYNOPSIS:

Billy slips into the apartment in the early hours of a new day, after having abandoned you for a few nights in order to tend to business. You never minded a busy schedule, so as long as the time spent at your side balanced it out. However, he’s been slacking in his efforts, and you’re not one to be brushed aside whenever things got inconvenient.

He attempts to curb your anger with his god-given charm and bedroom generosity, and you’re almost tempted to forgive him—almost. But after a very generous, very convincing tongue to your cunt, and a good few of his inches stuck within you, you’re eventually compelled to give him another chance.

═════════════════

The creak of the apartment door plucked your consciousness from the chasm of sleep. Your eyes split open without a breath to spare, your body still fuelled by the pent up adrenaline of the past shit-filled week. The door made a muffled click of closure before a sequence of heavy thuds pulled forth from you a more urgent sense of alertness. You lifted your head in a swift motion to spare a groggy glance over your shoulder, your agitation laid to rest by the scene of your beloved intruder traipsing across the dim, open-plan apartment—but the annoyance surrounding his prolonged absence quickly took its stead.

What was usually a temporary work setback that would only keep Billy away for a night or two had turned into a painfully drawn out week of his absence—without the courtesy of a notice, might you add. Not that you’d ever admit it to the bugger, but the atmosphere of his apartment had been unbearably dull without his effortless, colourful charisma, and his endearment for the word cunt.

You hadn’t minded that Billy was a busy man, and in any case, you’d made no official obligations to one another that would warrant your feelings. However, the bastard’s pattern of disappearances and reappearances without an explanation had started to wear you thin, and quite frankly, you’d started to feel like cheap company.

You birthed a groan at your premature departure from sleep and turned your head away from Billy’s wandering figure—you’d begrudgingly missed him, but you could hardly be arsed to entertain the questions of his whereabouts when exhaustion so perilously perched itself on your eyelids and burnt your eyes teary for as long as they remained open. This was one of very few occasions where sleep really could solve the problem, so you manoeuvred your body between the sheets and wrapped your arms around your pillow, trapping it against your cheek—a forceful plea to indulge your need for a longer rest.

Your eyes fluttered closed, not needing much prompting, especially with the added bonus of ignoring Billy’s presence entirely. But the voice you’d violently craved throughout your desolate nights traversed the room as a deep echo, plucking forward your consciousness once more.

“D’I wake ya, Love?”

You burrowed your face into the pillow and heaved a frustrated sigh. “It’s either that or you’re talking to a bloody ghost,” you pushed out groggily, your voice rough—breached by the night’s sleep—and muffled by the satin pillowcase.

You heard Billy chuckle half-heartedly from across the room. “D’ya sleep all right?” He asked—an attempt to brush off your foul mood. On a good day, which were most days, he could easily drink up and reciprocate your wit. Clearly, whatever he’d abandoned the bed—and you—for had taken its toll. You didn’t know whether he’d slept at all, when he was out doing whatever it was he so often left to do.

The initial agreement of your whole relationship—if you could call it that—with Billy, was never to ask questions about what he did, where he did them, and why he’s doing them. I don’t want nobody perched on me fuckin’ shoulder, houndin’ me around and playin’ devil’s advocate all bloody day until me head is done in. No babysittin’, no collar round me neck, no fuckin’ fuss, eh? Those were more or less the terms Billy had set forward, but your relationship had evolved since that point. The more nights your bodies had spent entangled, there came a mutual realisation that the company you both provided one another had become more like a deep-rooted, carnal need, rather than a impish way to pass time. Billy was pretty good in getting his cut of it from you, but had been failing to reciprocate the effort on his side. It felt like exploitation, and you’d just about had enough of that.

You came to it eventually, shrugging off the chain of thought that had shackled your brain. “Haven’t slept nearly enough,” you offered curtly.

There was a brief pause from Billy’s side, before he asked, “somethin’ been keepin’ yer up?” Your attention latched onto the hesitant undertone of his voice—barely noticeable, but undeniably there. He was far too good at his reserved facade, but you’d long since trained your ear to tell the truth men just like him would not. “Bet both me bollocks it’s tha’ cooing shit machine tha’ done set up base on the window outside. Annoying li’l fucker—you give me the word, Love, and I’ll evict the plumy wanker.”

His avoidant rambling triggered an involuntary clench of your jaw; you could almost envision the smug, lopsided smirk hitching up the corner of his lips. The moment of silence that had preceded his words made perfect sense—it was an acknowledgement of the truth he refused to directly admit; a rhetorical question he very much knew the answer to. He was no dumb man; he knew he’d gotten his stylish boots stuck ankle-deep in a fat pile of shit with you.

You weren’t nearly sleep-sober enough to entertain his bold query, so in an attempt to purge your exhaustion, you peeled back the comforters and finally sat yourself up to face him. Billy’s head tilted as he drank in your appearance, his expression glazed with the apartment’s dawn gloom, but you could make out the ruffled, jagged peaks of the hair crowning the top of his head—clearly ploughed through by one too many stressed hands.

“And there’s me dashin’ lady. Sincerest top o’ the mornin’ to you, Love,” he said, inching a few steps closer to your corner of the apartment. He hesitated beside the dining room table when his words didn’t enlighten your expression and hummed dramatically. “Knackered, are we?”

Around you, the warm glow of dawn began to creep its way through the crevices of the curtained windows, casting the apartment with an ethereal glow that almost made Billy’s figure appear angelic from where he stood at the other end of the modest quarters. The burly shape of his black-coated silhouette was traced with a line of liquid fire, perfectly encapsulating the true beauty of his essence when he was vulnerable enough to show it—and a beautiful soul he was, minus his impulsive need to play the absentee partner.

You leaned your back against the headboard of the bed, your knees retracting into your abdomen while your arms wrapped around them to trap them against you. “I am knackered,” you mocked matter-of-a-factly. “What was that you asked earlier—has something been keeping me up? Boy, what a question that is, Billy,” you said thinly, and Billy’s eyes narrowed in preparation as the nonchalant smirk was plucked from his lips.

“Well, for starters, these last few nights, the bed has been unbearably cold and empty. Now, I used to share it with a man to keep me all warm and toasty, but that same man? He’s one heck of a busy fucker. He’s always goddamn working—says he’s got his own little enterprise going on, but I’m not allowed to know the first thing about that—so who knows if it’s at all true? He could be out getting a full-course serving of pussy for all I know, while I’m left behind to keep his bed warm until he’s had his external fill of it and comes running back.”

Your convicted man hovered about, the usual furrow in his expression no deeper than usual, but you could tell by the faint tilt of his head that he’d been listening to your rant intently, and the squirming motion of his lower lip implied a tense biting. You squinted your eyes at one of his eyebrows that seemed to be thickened at the arch; you didn’t doubt that it was from the mean kiss of a fist, since he tended to collect enemies and wounds like medals.

“Not to mention the countless times he’s crawled into bed with unexplainable injured littered across his body, and I’m to pretend they’re not existent as I run my hands over them,” you added pointedly. “He’s a strange, mysterious man, and he’s gotten far too comfortable leaving me alone for nights on end and demanding everything his way the moment he returns.” Your brows furrowed sarcastically. “Now, what do you suppose I do about a dick like that?”

“Ya ought to give it a good ol’ wank and a tickle o’ the balls, and just before his shit hits the ceiling, yer give the tip o’ his knackers a diabolical twisty,” Billy suggested flippantly, his hands raised to mimic the theoretical scene.

“Cut the Billy-bullshit,” you snapped. “It’s bloody well been a week since I last saw you—and the shit you do is so goddamn sketchy, I had no fucking idea if you were even still alive. You couldn’t have even said goodbye, or, I don’t know, told me where the hell you were going to fuck off to?”

Billy’s hands were spread open into a scoff of a gesture. “Oi, gimme a bit ‘o credit there, will yer, Love? No Supe cunt has managed to put me in a grave for a good kip just yet.” He torqued his chin in that characteristic manner of his. “And I ain’t goin’ out without a nuclear bang; you’d have seen me face all over that shite news channel with me bloody arm stuck half way up that Homelander’s Comp V arsehole—like a good ol’ rectal exam.”

Confusion took the stead of annoyance at his mention of Comp V, but you were far more interested in the mention of Supes and the Homelander himself. This was the first time Billy had ever let on a fraction of information about who he was routinely involved with every time he disappeared—a royal fuckup, no doubt. You’d always been a determined girl with a knack for satisfying your curious itch, and that combination didn’t bode well for Billy’s need of discretion.

You’d have been a slow fool to question who Homelander was. While you’d never personally taken interest in the leader of the so-called gifted band of heroes who practically governed the state, you’d heard of enough incidents to know that The Seven were far from do-gooders. So, just what the hell would a man like Billy be doing with them? He was no angel—gods, you knew that, but he was not nearly tainted enough to sit and share bread at the table of the Superheros. Comp V, however? That term didn’t place among your knowledge. You wanted to—needed to know more.

You leant away from the bed frame and tilted your head with blunt scrutiny. “What business do you have with a freaky man-Supe like Homelander?” You asked sceptically. “Have you got friends up in higher places that I don’t know about? And what the hell is Comp V?”

Billy’s expression seem to buffer over your words, his shoulders lightly tilting from side to side as his brain took to working around his apparent slip up. “Ne’ermind you that, Love,” he averted eventually, reaching up a hand to swipe a quick scratch across his bearded chin. “Nothin’ to pick yer pretty li’l brain ‘bout, eh? Now, ya fancy a nosh? Me appetite’s just ‘bout burned through me stomach wall.”

You ignored his divergence, your expression hardening with warning. “You’re going to play games with me at this very early hour of the day, William?”

The use of his full name made Billy’s head tilt back in the slightest manner, his chin lifting with a notion of denial, then acceptance. You watched him furrow his thick brows and offer a low grunt before his head dropped to shrug off the weight of your accusing stare. His gaze remained averted as he rolled his shoulders to shed his signature black coat, and with that, his hard-ass facade he so often paraded under the public’s eye. In here—around you, he was afforded to step out of that role every once in a while.

The forsaken coat made for a gracious reveal of Billy’s fine-toned pair of biceps, the very set that had pinned you against this bed on far too many occasions. But you didn’t allow yourself to entertain those lustful memories for too long, knowing the power they possessed in their ability to completely eradicate any ill-will you currently bore him.

You followed the whisk of his arms as he moved to drape the coat across the nearest chair that bordered the circumference of the circular dining table, then watched as reached across to snatch a half-drained bottle of whiskey from its surface. A low fuckin’ hell split his lips as he sank himself down into the coat-crowed chair, his figure perfectly positioned to oppose you. You heard the whiskey bottle gurgle as he titled the nozzle into his mouth and eagerly began draining the beverage.

You squinted at the nerve of his nonchalance, then pushed on more pettily. “What, nothing to say at all?” You scoffed. “Never could get you to shut up, and now when you talking would actually offer something valuable, you choose to bite your tongue?”

Billy’s adam’s apple dipped with a large gulp before he lowered the whiskey bottle and dragged a brisk thumb across his froth-kissed beard, his hand falling away to offer a lopsided smirk. “I meant what I said when we first started this sweet, little rendezvous o’ ours, Love—no hounding me on me own fuckin’ business,” he warned. “That were our deal, weren’t it?

“Yeah, well , I’m no business man,” you retorted. “But by all means, continue with your shady shit. All I’m saying is give a girl a warning or two from time to time instead of pulling a hit and run in the middle of the night like some prepubescent asshole.”

Not sparing him the luxury of a back and fourth bicker, you sank yourself back into the centre of the bed and laid your head onto the pillow—deliberately facing yourself away from him. You didn’t even care to wrap yourself back underneath the comfort of the sheets, you just needed to shrink away from this conversation.

“Just do what you do best—leave and let me get some sleep, please,” was all you murmured.

“All right, don’t get yer pretty knickers ina twist, now,” Billy soothed.

You heard the distant rustle of fabric, followed by a grunt of effort, before the thump of his boots escalated toward you and then ceased to exist entirely. The clank of the whiskey bottle settled on the bedside table at your head, and a few seconds later, you felt his knuckles graze a light trail from your exposed shoulder down to your elbow—a beckon for your attention, but when you stubbornly kept your head turned the opposite way, his hand retreated.

“Oi, would you just look at me, Love?”

“Can’t,” you said curtly, eyes forcibly screwed shut. “Sleeping. Now, shut your trap.”

You thought that the last of it, until the mattress at your back suddenly gave slight way and Billy sat himself down beside you. His arm reached across your thigh, his hand finding sanctuary at your knee, which was tucked into yourself as you laid in foetus formation. You tried hard to ignore his imposition, but all hope at fashioning that mask began to crumple as his thumb began wiping aimlessly along your skin—a rhythmic back and fourth motion that was oddly soothing to your stress-riddled, exhausted body.

“Look,” he began—it was a tone far more genuine than you’d ever thought him capable of, and it piqued your interest enough to open your eyes. “I know I been doin’ a mighty shite job at stayin’ around here—bein’ with you and all tha’. I ain’t exactly fuckin’ Romeo with a loyal pair o’ bollocks when it comes to relationships, but tell yer what—” he paused to boldly trail his knuckle down your thigh. “I’ll try and do better by yer—I mean tha’, even if I’m a ripe, stinkin’ cunt at times.”

You listened keenly to Billy’s words, but his lack of a clear apology still leered at some petty part of you. The sensational line that he began to draw down the skin of your thigh was an unexpected and very difficult arousal to suppress, your legs subtly drawing together to safeguard the root of all lustful feelings, which began to brew with the threat of bubbling over should he continue his actions. You made the conscious decision not to give into his ministrations so easily, so you pushed aside your growing arousal and decided to focus on the fat lump of unresolved anger still wedged in your throat—a hard pill to swallow.

“Is that supposed to be an apology?” You asked, your field of vision falling into obscurity as you focused on nothing in particular. You could see Billy shift in the very edge of your periphery, the hand tracing patterns on your thigh removed to welcome the cool air of the morning. That same hand didn’t forsake you for long. Within a few seconds, he had a grip on your jaw, his thumb and index finger gently, yet firmly bracketing your chin.

“Spare me a look-see,” he mocked gently, your head forcibly turned up to him. Obliged beyond choice, you allowed yourself a closeup of the man you’d so dearly missed, shifting onto your back to better your view of him.

There was a lot to appreciate about Billy’s face, but for once, it wasn’t the bedroom eyes or the devilish smirk that captured your attention off the bat. Instead, your eyes flickered about the red lines etched across his face—markings that had not been there only a few nights ago, when you’d littered kisses all along the contours of his face. These cuts were fresh, the blood in the trenches of flesh still clotting and very shy of a scab. The discovery caused annoyance to prick at your chest, but you’d long since forsaken anger. If you’d ever managed to successfully talk Billy out of a fight, you’d have cracked a billion dollar contract by now.

“I look dashin’, don’t I?” He poked at your mindless glaring, then his expression softened as he drank in yours—reserved, save the unimpressed scowl. “Me face looks like a slapped arse, I know—bet yer half wishin’ to add another spank to this shitshow, eh?” He chuckled.

“Don’t temp me,” you scoffed, jutting your chin to the side to dislodge his hold on you. “God, did the other guy stick you through a paper shredder?” You shot, then added, “you look like absolute shit, I’m almost starting to believe you get off on a good beating.”

Billy Butcher was a man infamous for modelling a face of cuts and bruises, always managing to enlist a fist to the face through one interaction or the other. He wasn’t a particularly adored man, but you’d never found fault with that—it only meant more him for you, after all. You’d have appreciated that fact more if he’d been around enough.

“Oh, come off it,” he scoffed. The hand that had been robbed of your jaw now moved to swipe an aimless scratch across his beard, his gaze averting to the other end of the apartment with a forlorn expression. You recognised the turmoil in his features as an attempt to find the right words to express his more mushy feelings—not an easy feat for the asture, balls-of-steel Butcher.

“Look, I’ve been a plus-sized arse, I know that. I warned ya, ladies like you don’t stick around men like me for too long. The shit I do? Diabolical stuff, Love. Trust me, yer better off left behind in this bed where none o’ that can pucker up to yer arsehole like a good, mean case of diarrhoea.” He paused to soften his expression. “Just tryin’ to protect ya, is all,” he added softly.

You sniffled softly as you held his earnest stare, then forced yourself to sit up, while Billy simultaneously shifted to give you space. You searched his features for a few seconds and only saw sincerity—an eerily, misplaced emotion on his brute features, so the lump in your throat began to loosen an inch, permitting you swallow with more natural ease.

“Fine,” you relented softly, allowing the tension moulding your features to soften. “All will be forgiven, Billy Butcher—only if you start making an effort to treat me like less of a stress-reliever, and more like a person who wants a genuine connection with you.”

He gave a cheeky cock of his head. “Wha’, ya don’t like the way I blow off steam? Yer cunt ain’t ever said the same thing.”

“Classy,” you scoffed. But not wrong. Billy sniggered with his all-knowing grin.

You shifted yourself onto your knees as you began to make your way across the mattress and towards him. He watched you through a calculating look, his attention making a mischievous dip toward your thighs, so perfectly displayed in your finely cut pyjama shorts. You ignored the innuendo in his wandering eyes, reaching out an arm to clasp his shoulder for support. You leaned onto his broad frame as you meandered your way onto his lap, and his hands found grip at your hips as he aided your movement to straddle his thighs, his eyes hounding your every move.

“Makin’ yerself right at home, eh?” He remarked suggestively.

Once you settled in position, his hands trailed up to your waist to deliver a light squeeze to your neglected body, his palms then settling flat against the exposed stretch of skin deserted by the length of your cropped tank. His touch was warm—almost too warm, like he had something to prove following your very dramatic claim of the cold, lonely nights you’d endured. His hands began dragging a sensual pathway along your frame before settling at the small of your back, where he held you firmly against him—you wouldn’t be shunning him again anytime too soon, as fortified by his hold on you.

You curled your one hand around the nape of Billy’s neck, the other moving to frame the side of his head. “You look worse than a bruised prune,” you said, making a point to press your thumb across the fresh cut forming a vicious, bloodied trough through the arch of his brow. It was almost nasty enough to rival the scar tracing the opposite end of his forehead.

“Oi!” Billy protested, his head momentarily tilting away from you. “Yer got a bloody thumb on ya, fuckin’ hell. Save yer fingering for the little miss cunt down there.”

“Oh trust me, I have,” you retorted, to which a meld of surprise and admiration hitched his brows. You returned your finger to the cut in his brow, more tenderly this time as you felt across the surrounding blotchy purple-yellow bruise and then flitted to caress another cut along his cheek and the opposite temple. “After all, somebody’s got to keep me satisfied when you’re not around, and be thankful it was myself, you dick.”

“All right,” he said. “Fair enough, but I ain’t been dipping me wick in another woman’s wax, Love, so how’s ‘bout we lay off the poncy pouting—make no further delay in the inevitable amalgamation o’ pleasure the both of us are ‘bout to be?” The hands at your back burrowed under the waistband of your shorts and underwear with slick ease—a far too rehearsed and perfected performance. The way his large palms spanned a considerable area of your buttocks never failed to get the groin going; he knew that.

“You’ve got a lot to atone for before you get a good milking,” you warned, hand falling away from his face. Though, Billy’s grip on your ass began to tighten persuasively, and you thought that he could potentially work a few, unfair angles in order to knock off a good amount days from that sex-deprived sentence.

You partially turned your torso to reach for the whiskey bottle he’d set on the bedside table, snatching up the beverage at the neck of the glass. You turned back to him, and his eyes lowered to the drink with a cheeky gleam.

“Fancying a swig at the peek o’ dawn?” he poked. “Been learnin’ a thing or two from me, it seems.”

“It’s for you, obviously,” you said, lifting the nozzle to the wound in his brow. “A toast to your idiocy—cheers.” You tilted the bottle to free the whiskey, and the beverage formed a bubbly waterfall as it cascaded through the reddened cleft in his brow. The amber liquid slithered down his cheek and through the wilderness of hair framing his jaw, then reappeared at the base of his neck to seep into the collar of his floral shirt.

You never did miss the glint of the chain always wrapped around Billy’s neck like a lifelong claim of ownership, adorned with a St Christopher medal—an oath of some sort—which dangled from the steel-linked wreath. And it didn’t escape your notice now as a few of the silver links gleamed with rogue beads of whiskey. It must’ve been a keepsake from a past relationship that had meant a large deal to Billy, but the mystery of its continued existence around his neck was a secret barred from your common knowledge. If it had been a gift from somebody who meant a lot to him, it was a rather odd one—he didn’t particularly strike you as a man who dabbled in religious beliefs of protective saints. Then again, how much did you really know about Billy Butcher?

Either way, Billy had never once spoken about it, despite the many times you’d openly assaulted it’s presence with curious eyes. And there were some things you just would not push, despite your tendency to get brash. So, you’d made peace with the fact that perhaps he would never grant you the key to that particular cell of memories, but you couldn’t honestly say that the implied emotional ties of it all didn’t bother you—and more so, how that influenced his regard for you.

You were plucked from your gnawing thoughts at the sound of Billy sucking air. His teeth were bared as he stifled a guttural wince, and his eye had collapsed closed under the assaulting burn of the whiskey.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell!” he barked, his hands shifting up their position on your arse to rest on the upper curves, gripping them tightly like they were a lifeline for support. “Stings like the kiss of a bloody bee’s arse.”

“Always a pleasure enlisting your colourful poetry.” You retreated with the bottle and burrowed the glass body between your thighs, your hand then returning to aid his face. You swiped your thumb across his closed eye and along his half-drenched face eradicate the film of whiskey. “The prick did a number on you,” you remarked.

Billy tilted his head away from your prying thumb, “Yeah, well, that wanker takes the win on this one,” he insisted. “His lips done looked like a fat cunt by the time I finished him.”

You hummed absentmindedly in response, then felt as one of his hands abandoned the seize on your buttocks to capture your hand at the wrist. He lifted it up into the space between your torsos, his head slightly tilted to fix you with an unwavering stare as he released your wrist and his fingertips began a soft, upward trajectory along the tender skin. Your attention lowered to the work of his fingers as they passed into the gentle rise and hollow of your palm, before each digit diverged to claim a spot between your own fingers, and there they interlocked with near-perfect harmony.

Billy often reminded you that hands were meant to exist in pairs other than your own two when he performed gestures like these. It made sense, really, considering how perfectly fingers could interlink with one another—as though intimacy had always been engraved into the DNA of their skeleton.

He made a gentle twist of his wrist to expose the backside of your hand to his exploitation, and he lowered his lips in an antagonisingly slow manner to press a kiss to your knuckles, all while drinking in the look on your face.

You savoured the warm and gentle flush of his breath against your skin while it lasted; it reinforced the truth of his return and his presence right here before you. The loneliness had gotten overwhelming—a thought that scared you. The moment you admitted that Billy’s absence had an effect on the daily flow of events in your life, you’d have to admit that you’d gotten far too attached to an inevitably temporary situation.

You’d always been vulnerable to emotional investment, forming attachments with anybody you’d been afforded the opportunity to properly flesh out your five senses with; the prolonged touch of handholding, a connecting glance, being adorned with a cologne-scented clothing item of theirs, the sound of their laugh in response to a poorly made joke, or the taste of a shared kiss. It was a gift to love somebody the way you could love, but a curse when cast upon a man like Billy Butcher.

“Oi, Love,” he beckoned to you, the remaining hand on your ass squeezing lightly. You averted your gaze from your intertwined hands to glance at him, his head was slightly tilted as if to gauge a better understanding of the thoughts holding your speech hostage. “S’a weekend, so tell tha’ busy brain o’ yers to take a bloody day off, eh?”

You lifted your chin lightly, your nostrils flaring with a breath to reset your thoughts. “There’s been a lot going on lately, all right?” You said, wriggling your hand within Billy’s in an attempt to shake his hold, but his grip on you only tightened, so you accepted defeat and allowed your hand to fall limp.

He tucked your conjoined hands into the warmth of your thighs, careful not to knock the whiskey bottle. “Got places to be?” He asked insincerely, a mischievous grin peaking through.

“Apparently not,” you answered with a beleaguered sigh.

“Atta girl—right ya are!” Billy praised, then leant his head forward in an attempt to press a kiss to your lips. Your other hand that you had comfortably nestled atop his shoulder moved to intercept the action with an index finger to his lips, which left him with a frown of disappointment.

You pressed your finger into his lips slightly harder than necessary before sliding your fingertip down into the bearded divot of his chin, adorned with the moisture of whiskey. There, you prodded him away meanly, his chin jutting into himself with the motion.

His eyes drooped with disappointment. “Clenchin’ the arsehole outta spite, are we?” He said snarkily because Billy Butcher didn’t like, nor tolerate rejection. You knew that his ego had taken the front-seat, now.

As much as you’d have loved to further emasculate him with some petty banter, you merely reached for the whiskey bottle trapped between your thighs and eagerly brought the liquor to your lips. You managed a few, generous swigs as you held Billy’s stare—a mixture of surprise and respect dancing in his hazel depths. You felt a stray line of whiskey escape your swallow at the corner of your lip, slinking down the side of your jaw. You also noted the way Billy’s attention lowered to that same escapee bead of liquor, his eyes narrowing as though entertaining some internal thoughts of his.

Once you’d decidedly had enough of the whiskey, you lowered the bottle with a hearty swallow and held it out before you to see how much of the drink still remained. There was a decent amount of it left—enough to fill a glass and a half. Satisfied, you brought it back up to hover it over Billy’s head with a sarcastic smile.

“Bottoms up,” you cheered.

“Don’t ya fuckin’—” he was silenced by the stream of whiskey being inevitably poured onto his head and he dropped his chin to avoid a direct assault on his eyes—his generous and voluminous field of hair took the brunt of the force and flattened under the foamy weight of it all. Very little strands of hair were left unmarred by wetness, and the floral patterns in shirt had darkened considerably, mostly at the base of his neck. He released his grip on your hand and ass to run a hand through his hair and across his face. “Fuckin’ son o’ cunt,” he spat, his lashes fluttering with a strained attempt to open his eyes.

You tossed the empty whiskey bottle across the bed, watching as Billy managed to lift his head and part his screwed eyes at last. He was still dripping at the brow, and upon making eye contact with you, he passed an angry swipe of his tongue across his lips with the intent to scold you—but you didn’t give him the chance to fume as you gripped either side of his jaw and forcibly pushed your lips against his.

He made a noise halfway between a grunt and a moan in response to your imposition, but shortly returned the kiss with an aggressive push of his own lips. You lapped up the amalgamation of whiskey and cigar smoke that basted his tongue like a starved street mutt while his large hands came down harshly on your ass—the reprimand that he hadn’t verbally been able to deliver, but you had a feeling that this was only the beginning, and that he’d have well made his point by the end of this heated, physical debate.

You felt the twinge of his nails even through the fabric of your shorts as he gripped you there and pressed your pelvis into him, the act so possessive you felt as though there were an unspoken presence in this room that Billy had a point to prove to. But his hold on you hadn’t come to a standstill—instead, he began to forcibly guide your lower half into a rhythmic dance akin to the waves of the ocean, to and fro, riding the shore of his ever-growing erection. His steering of your hips was godsent, the angle just right enough to provide sensory input to your own sensitive mound. Billy might’ve been self-serving in the pursuit of pleasure when it came to the bedroom, but he never neglected your own needs.

You bit your tongue to stifle the moans threatening to flee your lips. The last thing you needed was for your musical pleasure to whisper directly into Billy’s ear, cooing to his erection. Although you’d already given him exactly what he’d wanted by initiating this steaming mess, you wouldn’t make the entire process that easy for him.

As you were forcibly ground against Billy’s manhood, his kisses grew more impatient and sloppy, his teeth periodically seizing your lips somewhere in the mix. Your hands trailed down his bearded neck—further smearing the whiskey—to take grip at his shoulders before running your hands over the defined muscles, flexed while he worked at kneading your hips, waist and ass in an erratic, patternless desperation. The added stimulation of your skin-on-skin contact with his shoulders seemed to spur him on, his throat reverberating with a gruff moan that you instantly plucked from your shared kiss and shamelessly drank up.

Billy’s one hand shifted from his grip on your ass up to the small of your back; you felt the way his fingertips had grown sticky with the whiskey, puckering your skin every time he made contact and then abruptly moved away. Without warning, his palm curled supportively around your waist and he effortlessly hoisted your body against his navel, the other hand curling across your bottom. He pulled away from the kiss, his thick brows furrowed with focused intent as his eyes flickered all across your features.

“Yer a bleedin’ pain in me arse, y’know tha’?” Billy said in rough, breathy syllables. He then stole one last kiss to silence the stinging retort that was sure to accompany the indignant twist in your expression, and in an effortless motion, he had you on your back in less than a second.

“You aren’t exactly all sunshine and rainbows, either,” you countered through a huff, hands wrapping supportively around the nape of his neck as you suspended yourself from his overhanging frame. Your expression turned challenging. “Besides, you seem to enjoy pain,” you say pointedly, eyes flickering to the gash in his brow. “So I’m actually quite on-brand company, don’t you think?”

He gave a relenting torque of his chin, charming smirk plastered to his lips. “S’pose yer right. Must be why I fancy ya, then, eh?” He straightened up onto the support of his knees, his hands shifting to find place at your waist before he slid them up your frame to peel back the tank top concealing his desired view. “Now, lemme see me neglected pair o’ girls,” he demanded in an impatient grunt. “Tell ‘em daddy’s home.”

You grimaced lightly at Billy. “Don’t be gross,” you told him, hands falling away from his shoulders to aid his stripping of your torso.

“Bollocks,” he replied almost instantly, “yer love it.” You did—deep down, you devoured his crass attention. He had no difficulty sliding the tank over your head and raised arms, instantly chucking the clothing to some other end of the apartment.

Your hands flew to cover your exposed breasts, your expression alight with cheek as you flashed Billy a toothy grin. He leered you over, an approving smirk on his lips before his hands made an advance towards you. You almost thought he’d make a move to pull back the curtains on your breasts, but instead, his hands cupped your waist.

“All right,” he began—an entertained air about him. “You play it tha’ way.” His hands dipped into the waistband of your shorts, his calloused fingertips teasing at the skin of your back before they found the seem of your underwear and began stripping away the last of your clothed dignity. “Shit’s always arse about face with yer—ne’er the easy way.”

“Easy’s boring,” you told him. He tugged harshly at your shorts & underwear, managing to strip it from your lower half without a struggle. You watched as he shimmied the clothing items down the expanse of your legs, pausing half way to press a greedy kiss to your thigh.

Your legs instinctively squeezed together as the arousal between them became unbearable. Your feet were lifted from the comfort of the bed as Billy stripped the last of your clothing and bundled it aside.

“There we are,” he said with an undertone of accomplishment, his hands moving to curl under your thighs and take steady grip at the skin. Without warning, he tugged you a short length down the bed toward him. You gave a small yelp at being whisked across the sheets, the friction providing a momentary warmth that soothed the skin of your bare back.

“What you say we get the ball runnin’ on this thing, eh?” Billy remarked, and you felt as he encouraged widening of one of your thighs, his other hand making a motion towards your heated mound. You burrowed the back of your head into the sheets almost instantly as his fingers rudely acquainted your folds, teasing at the area that had grown slick with his mere presence.

“Blimey,” he said—an action that made you a tad bit self-conscious. It hadn’t been too long since he’d last seen you down there, but the conditions had already started to become less kept. He’d never been the one to judge, though. He was man enough to be unbothered by trivial matters of body hair. “D’ya have a good weep down here? It done look like a bloody water slide, and I ain’t barely laid a hand on ya,” he said amazedly, fingers grabbing ahold of your clit to deliver a brash squeeze.

Your lower body tensed with the jolt of stimulation his action elicited, and you lifted your head to glare at him. “I almost forgot what an absolute ass of a tease you are,” you told him with the beginning of a frustrated frown.

Billy thumbed an almost apologetic, circular motion around your sensitive area, flashing you a thin-lipped smirk. “Ease off the stick in yer ass, Love, s’all part of the process. Now, you just lay that head o’ yers back like a prissy li’l pillow princess and let good ol’ Billy take care o’ the brunt of things goin’ on down here, all right?”

You didn’t verbally scoff, but the flick of your eyes conveyed the gesture well enough. The hands on your breasts fell away to prop up your torso as you told him, “I’m not a pillow princess. You’re just a greedy—borderline control freak bastard that wants everything his way.”

Billy’s eyes dipped to your exposed chest, and you knew your words had escaped his notice entirely. “Ah, there’s me cheerleaders—come to give me a word of encouragement, have they? Always did love a good audience.” His hand continued to work at your sensitive areas as he brought himself up to your face, other forearm planted supportively beside your head as he leaned over and pressed a firm kiss to your lips.

You kissed him back eagerly, letting yourself fall back against the mattress as you took grip at the base of his neck before blindly reaching down for the buttons of his shirt. You felt the cold pendant of his necklace tease at your neck as he leaned deeper into the abyss of your lips, grunting at your efforts to undo his shirt. You felt his fingers grow impatient between your folds, making a sheer dip into your entrance—and it invited him in without a hassle. You broke off the kiss and sucked air through your teeth at his sudden intrusion, your lower half reflexively tensing with suspense and desire all at once.

“Relax, Love, s’just me—nothin’ new,” Billy murmured breathily against your lips. “Just like we done a thousand times, eh?”

You nodded wordlessly, lips brushing against his—it was well within Billy’s talents to ease the freedom of speech right on out of you, especially with a bedroom talent as skilled as his. You tried consciously to relax your muscles, and Billy had slowed his pace only momentarily to augment your efforts. The success of your attempt was confirmed by his fingers reaching a deeper, warmer depth with each continued thrust, and it wasn’t long before he began to brutalise his pace once more. You gulped hazily, hands hesitating against the fabric of his shirt as his work within you became too much to bear.

“Tha’s a good girl—swallowing me hand whole,” he husked against your jaw. “I know tha’ greedy li’l cunt o’ yers is havin’ a rave down there, but put them hands to work and take me shirt off, will ya, Love?”

Moans of pleasure began to stew in your throat as Billy curled his fingers into you—a foul move when you were already grappling with the near-debilitating euphoria of his lesser ministrations. You tried your best to make headway at undoing the buttons of his shirt as he patiently hovered over you, his kneading of your insides beckoning forth the familiar knot within your core. Once the last button relented, you slid your hands under the middle part of the fabric, palms sliding up his ribcage and across his hairy chest, then toward his shoulders where you tugged the sleeves down his forearms.

The hand buried snugly within your entrance took an abrupt leave as Billy straightened himself and manoeuvred his arms to shed his shirt. He dived back down almost instantly, as though not wanting to lose momentum on the events playing out, both of his hands taking grip at your waist. You felt the slick and warmth of the fingers he’d burrowed within you claw hungrily at your skin, then your attention drew to the upward trail his nose drew between your cleavage, where his lips dawdled greedily.

Your head sank further into the depth of the mattress as you allowed his skilful lips to dance across your skin, his tongue playing fair as he took turns twirling with each of your nipples. Occasionally, he’d deliver a cheeky bite to the sensitive bud, coupled by a husky chuckle when you’d release a wince of pleasure. Your hands took root in his full head of hair, fingers intertwining with the luscious locs and yanking them meanly to even out the playing field of Billy’s work on your breasts. His fingers began to grip harder at your waist, thumb pressing divots into your abdomen, only adding to the pressure that had long since amassed at your core.

“Fucking hell,” you breathed out as Billy’s tongue dragged a warm snail trail down your stomach and across your navel where he settled just shy of your mound with teasing, bordering kisses.

“Fuckin’ hell, indeed,” Billy echoed busily, palms flattened as he grazed them down either side of your hips. He ghosted over your thighs before reaching for your calves and pushing them upward in a gesture to prop up your knees. Once you lifted your legs from the bed, his arms diverged between your legs and curled around them, where he found grip at your inner thighs.

You propped yourself onto your elbows to glimpse your lower half now perfectly presented to Billy, who met your gaze with that scheming smirk of his. “Brace yerself, Love, I’m ‘bout to make a lovely nosh o’ yer cunt,” he warned before his head dipped into your yearning core.

The first greeting of his mouth came as a gaping hole, swallowing your entire being whole. With each lap of his tongue, his sharp nose prodded at your clit, which caused your core to bloom with debilitating pleasure. You tossed your head back, lower lip hauled into the firm clench of your teeth as you drowned the moans attempting to escape the depths of your throat. Straddled at your sides, your fingers furled into the disrupted duvet, ferociously groping the fabric as though it were the tether keeping you from getting swept up into the whirlwind of endorphins.

You adored the way Billy’s beard chafed your folds—coarse hair grating against pliable flesh, and you sought out the stimulation with such eagerness that you began to lift your pelvis deeper into his wet warmth. But the broad hands curled around your thighs proved their strength in the way that Billy kept you pressed against the bed, fingers melding into the flesh of your inner thighs as a feat of authority—control. His jaw began to swivel erratically as his tongue picked up the pace, swirling around, above and below your mound—even making a momentary dip into your slicked entrance. That action plucked an unorthodox moan from your chest, your hand flying to take grip at Billy’s hair.

“Oh, fuck me!” You exclaimed breathlessly, toes beginning to curl against the sheets as his tongue carried you to your climax.

“Tha’s well the plan, innit, Love?” Billy murmured against you, hand patting against your thigh as a teasing gesture of reassurance.

He went on and on, as unrelenting and greedy as the beginning, and the anticipation ricocheting about your lower extremities began to draw into a closely-knitted ball of stimulation just waiting to implode on itself. Your breathing shallowed, your fingers in his hair tightened, your shy noises became more boisterous, but Billy’s tongue pulled away from you, and with it, he quelled the ball of fire he’d lit in the first place.

Your expression furrowed with a mixture of disappointment and exhaustion as you sank back defeatedly into the mattress, the hand in his hair falling onto the sheets as you took a moment to replenish the stock of your lungs. “Asshole,” you huffed—barely audible.

“Oi, shut yer gob and gape yer cunt, ‘cause I ain’t finished with you just yet,” Billy said gruffly, hand reaching for yours. His fingers wrapped around your forearm and tugged suggestively.

Too tired to resist, you curled your fingers around his arm, and you were pulled up effortlessly from the mattress and into his frame. His hands came to rest at your waist, his lips finding yours in a desperate brawl. Your hands cupped his chest, ready to settle in their position as you intended to get lost in his overwhelming presence, but the kiss was abrupt as Billy pulled away to find your neck. He gave your collar bone a little nip, then eased the sting with a kiss before the hands on your hips turned you around and pushed you stomach-first into the mattress.

You gave a light yelp, but his tough fondling of you wasn’t a foreign practice, so you succumbed to his flow. You felt the cool metal of his chain graze up your back as he leant over you, his arm popping into your view as he reached for the pillow and snatched it up. He retreated and withdrew his frame, hand curling under your lower stomach and making the motion to lift you from the bed. You obliged and lifted your hips, to which Billy slid the cushion beneath your lower stomach, and you gladly settled back down into the cushioned support.

“There we are, all prepped for a good poundin’,” he remarked, the sound of his dropped zipper coming shortly after. You cast a glance over your shoulder just in time to witness Billy discarding his jeans and boxers to reveal the buoyancy of his hard-on—a view that you gladly drank up.

“Somebody’s missed me,” you poked.

Billy flashed you a grin, his hand moving to prep his hard-on with a good few strokes. “‘Course,” he said. “Been deprived o’ all worldly pleasures for a whole, bleedin’ week.” He released his manhood and shifted closer to your sprawled frame, hands reaching for your ass. “And yer cunt’s missed me, too.”

“I guess you could say that,” you sighed dramatically, fully aware of the self-forged dam between your legs. You flashed a cheeky grin before turning your head forward, crossing your arms and laying yourself into the support. “Well, have at it, then.”

You felt Billy’s palms caress the curve of your cheeks before he hooked his fingers below your pelvis and pulled your arse into an upward position. “C’mon, up we get. Ain’t s’pose to tell yer what to do—yer a right expert by now.”

You were—it was the same damn position every single time. Billy had a knack for seeing you bent over below him, face down and arse up as you lay all bare and presented for his very generous exploitation. “I’m just making you work for it, for once,” you said.

“Ne’er minded a job,” he answered, hand dipping into your slicked cunt, where he manoeuvred his fingers through the area and gathered and distributed enough of your slick to aid an easy insertion—and it wasn’t long before you felt his length insert into you with a slow and controlled ease.

A deep, hearty grunt of appreciation spewed from Billy’s lips, a low fuckin’ hell thrown somewhere into the mix. You mouth parted with a moan as you felt his girth ascend your entrance, glad for the gracious accommodation of your walls that practically welcomed him with open arms. Your eyes fluttered closed as you bathed in the initial bliss of his penetration, and you purposely perked your arse to deepen the sensation—and to spur him on.

Billy’s hands found a sturdy grip at your ass as his pelvis began to shift against you, the length within you retreating and returning with a steady pace. He held that speed for a good few minutes, feeling out the limits of your entrance, and once he’d reached a decent depth within you, he began to accelerate his movements. A hand slithered up to burrow into the small of your back, your abdomen pushed into the cushion below.

“Fuck, Billy,” you breathed out, pressing your face into the cushion as your arms strangled the feathered mass—his thrusts becoming too much to bear. You’d already endured his fingers & lips, and now the actual prize of the evening was proving too much of a mouthful—perhaps you’d bitten off more than you could chew, but it was far too late to spit out this particular morsel.

“Lovely arch you’ve got here—a bloody gymnast’s dream, that,” Billy teased, palm pressing harder into the small of your back, stomach further buried into the pillow—placed at your navel for the support he’d very much intended you to use. “Doing so well, Love, hang on f’me just a li’l longer, yeah?”

Blissful moans marinated within your throat, the sound hitched rhythmically by the slam of his pelvis against you. The bed rocked and creaked with the commotion, your propped lower half beginning to sag with exhaustion to the point where your entire weight was supported in Billy’s grip. You gnawed at your lip as his thrusts got harsher, faster—a means to an end.

The hand on your back moved to wrap within your hair. “Go on, use yer lungs, Love,” Billy demanded in a breathless grunt, using the hair he’d seized into his hand as leverage to hoist your head from the muffled comfort of the pillow.

Your head snapped into full extension, forcing you to take in the view of the pristine white ceiling overhead, not that the flecks of white dancing across your field of view allowed for much appreciation on your end. The compliance came like a reflex, shameless noises of pleasure streaming from your gaped jaw.

“Yeah, tha’s it,” he praised gruffly, his movements growing erratic. He paused his thrusts only to fold himself over you, his chest pressed against your back and his pelvis flattening your own against the mattress. He resumed his brutish movements, plunging your bodies with a motive that felt akin to reaching the depths of hell. His lips brushed against your ear, exhaustion latched onto his voice. “What you say we fill ‘er up, eh? Ya want that?”

His hand in your hair tightened, your neck further craning with the motion. “Need it,” you muttered thinly, your eyes growing watery with the overwhelming sensations flitting all about your being. “Please.”

“‘Cause yer asked so nicely,” Billy grunted into your head, then pressed a kiss to your temple. With a last bout of rocking, he delivered one last thrust that struck your core with all the pressure it needed to implode.

Your hair was released from his grip and your head fell into the crook of your folded arms, chest heaving as you fought to cling to the little sense you still possessed. Billy’s figure loitered on top of you, and you felt the way his own chest mirrored your exhaustion—if not worse. You sometimes forgot that he was riddled with a good few years of life, but he very rarely let that on in the bedroom.

The warmth of your shared arousal trickled from your entrance and watered the sheets below, but Billy stayed burrowed within you as you both laid motionless on the mattress. You didn’t mind it, though.

“Fuuuckin’ hell,” Billy groaned hoarsely, eventually slipping from your proximity and shifting onto the mattress beside you. He wasted no time in wrapping an arm across your back, hand tugging to pull your back into his chest so that you were comfortably spooned within his broad frame.

You melded yourself into his body, his arm sliding beneath your neck to offer your head some support while his other hand curled over your waist. His lips brushed against your shoulder, where he pressed a few, tender kisses—as if to compensate for his lack of playing nice for the entirety of the morning. You offered a light noise of contentment, a soft smile spreading your lips as your eyes fluttered closed.

All your worries? Forgotten as of now. Nothing mattered for the time being—you just needed to melt away into Billy’s presence. You knew he likely felt the same—a silent ghost whose hand on your waist dragged sensual lines across the skin, his breathing slowed as his jaw rested against your head.

“An Eggs Benedict would complete this morning,” you eventually spoke up, craning your head to glance at him with a suggestive hitch of your brows.

Billy grunted, his chin jutting in defeat. “Yeah, yeah, let a man catch ‘is breath first, then I’ll tend to me lady’s needs. Deal?”

You grinned with a sense of accomplishment. “Deal,” you replied, puckering your lips for a kiss. He leant over to press his lips against yours, and you turned away with a cheeky grin. “Old man,” you murmured cheekily.

“Oi,” he warned, hand on your waist delivering a light squeeze. “This old man fucks yer better than any other cunt ever did, innit?”

You shrugged dramatically. “All right, Billy, whatever you say.”

He scoffed with amused defeat. “Like I said,” he began, “yer a bleedin’ pain in me arse.”

“And don’t you forget it.” You bit the inside of your cheek, mind wandering back to the events of the morning. You had to admit that the anger you’d been harbouring towards Billy had long since eased away—might have very well been fucked right on out of you. If he could keep up this newfound apologetic package of his, you’d happily forgive any of his future shortcomings.

“Wha’s on yer mind?” Billy asked.

“I forgive you.”

“Well,” he remarked smugly. “Ain’t ya adorable?”

“Yes,” you answered instantly. “I am—so don’t fuck it up.”

“Don’t intend to, Love,” he said, pulling you closer against him. “Ain’t got the universe on me side next time yer work up a storm about all me shit. I’ll do right by yer, like I said.”

You turned to face him, your expression earnest as you gazed up at him. “Promise?”

Billy mirrored your stare with a soft smile. “Scout’s honour,” he said. “And yer give me a bloody ear if I break it, all right?”

═════════════════

Thank you for reading!

I’m literally so sick of this piece I just want it out of my drafts 😭 apologies for any typos, it’s not entirely proof read towards the end. I hope y’all enjoyed it regardless!

𝜗𝜚

Other Billy Butcher / Karl Urban works:

I M A G I N E S

Carnival for Kisses

Lover Boy Butcher

S M A U s

Pov you hardlaunch your relationship with Karl Urban

𝜗𝜚

Tags: @violent-darkness @gibson-g1rl @shirley-girly @kus-babygirl @internetitgirl17 @dwinchesterspie1967 @babyfri3dric3

[sinvulkt]

List of some of webtoon and manhwa recs.

First of all I should probably say that my favorite type of stories (so the type you might find in the list bellow) is ’tragedy comedy adventure’ without any romance, but possibly a lot of bromance | tension (ok some BL slipped by me into this list). And rather self destructive mc for the sake of their goal (often to the utter despair of the people who care about them xd). Bring forth conflicts and battles of will and rising against destiny !

@blackhazefanblog I did this for you! It took a while. Even if I think you’ll find the ones in [The Fantasy Kind] are the most likely to have similar vibes to black haze. : D

All summaries are from Baka-Updates or WebtoonLine. The links are either towards WebtoonLine, or towards the original official site (or official english translation if i found it).

The Fantasy Kind

Black Haze (Ongoing)

A long time ago, a portal to another world was opened, and those who acquired special abilities along with marks began to be called mages. After the incident known as "that day", the first-class mage from Ophion, known as "Blow", has become very famous. One day, he receives a very special mission: to protect the second son of the Artian family, who suffers from being called a "monster" at the magic school "Helios"! Thus, Blow enrolls in Helios under the name "Rood Krisch" to hide his true identity...

My all time favorite. I learned english thanks to it < 3. And it just group so many of my favorite tropes in one story ☆.☆

I’m not that kind of talent (Ongoing)

A talented individual who is respected by many and welcomed anywhere? Not at all! A bloodthirsty battle fanatic who knows no defeat? Couldn’t be further from the truth! In reality, Deon Hardt is a sickly human who coughs up blood from receiving the tiniest bit of stress and gets sunburns from standing in the sun for ten minutes. But due to an unfortunate misunderstanding, he becomes “Demon Arut,” the notorious 0th corps commander of the demon army and the demon king’s joker. Caught in a war between humans and demonkind, Deon must find a way to survive!

I discovered that one this year! I love comediy and tragedy mixed together, and that one fully achieved that, from making me laugh to absolutely destroying my heart seriously i am still hurting. Well this is a tragedy. Be warned. But a delicious one. (My heart TT.TT).

The Ember Knight (Ongoing)

When Nagyunn’s twin brother, Najin, is murdered before his very eyes, he vows to avenge his brother’s death by assuming Najin’s identity. But although the two may look alike, when it comes to fighting, Nagyunn lacks the talent and skill his brother possessed. In order to successfully execute his plot for revenge, Nagyunn resolves to train himself to become the prodigious knight-in-training his brother once was. Will Nagyunn be able to keep his identity a secret before others begin to catch on to his act?

Another one I discovered ’recently’ = last year. I absolutely adore the fact that the mc rely fully on wits and bluff. He will never get a cheat skill to get as strong as others- he just has to play his card rights (which happen to be a bunch of overprotective knights wishing he stopped going in front of the blade path). So he gotta bluff. A lot. Including playing betrayal at every corner, and i sure love betrayal :3. That and it’s a revenge story ~

TAL (Complete)

They walk like ordinary people, they talk like ordinary people but in fact there is nothing ordinary about them since they can materialize an image they have on their mind... They call themselves Chachaoong which also means Shaman and they do not know how or when they came to this world. It is now a time for their current king to choose the future one and so he did by choosing Yu Jin an ordinary human...? Many of the Chachaoong can not tolerate a human ruling them and now the poor Yu Jin not knowing what suddenly hit him, is trying to avoid the Chachaoongs who are trying to kill him!

This has been my second favorite after Black Haze for a long time, because I got a soft spot for escapists xd. All the more escapists with consequences catching them back faster than they can run until they’re cornered ☆.☆ Fight until the end against a fate you are doom to surrender to ~ I love it.

Catharsis (Complete)

Fear is a powerful emotion that can end up overtaking one's life. Leon thought he knew that. But when he's thrown into the demonic realm that Catharsis governs over, he'll learn that there is more to “true” fear than he could ever have imagined... But will he learn how to face it?

That one also stayed in my mind for a long time. The ending is more ’open’ than I would have wished, but well, there is no sequel yet so let’s call that an ending. Appart from that i loved the mc, and he has synesthesis which give really cool result in webtoon format (yay colors). In a world where nightmares take physical shape, the mc get attacked by nightmares and end up being recruited by the agency fighting nightmares bcs they feel smthg off about him.

Crepuscule (Complete)

Lark is different from the rest of the kids. He has red eyes, just like Vampires do, and he is bullied by the other kids for it. One day he meets Setz, a genuine Vampire of a Noble clan who is the only one that doesn't call him a monster or bully him. Eventually they become friends, but when Lark finds out he may have to return to the orphanage, Setz decides he does not want to lose his friend, so he invites him to his home... The world of the Vampires.

Another webtoon i grew up with as a teen. It isn’t my all time fav, but i still quite enjoyed it enough to reread it a few times. Must be the blond mc that reminded me of Rood xd. Or the fact that he is super weak in a world of monsters. Or the reason he has those red eyes. (Such delicious angst amidst the comedy). Are those just a trope I enjoy? XD

Godly Bells (Complete)

Divine Bells - they choose their own masters and they determine the status, prestige, and influence of the countries their masters rule. The presence or lack of these Bells also has great consequence in the lives of each country's royalty. In particular, the personal and political futures of King Hong-Ryeong seem doomed without a Bell, but at equally great peril if he obtains one. But are the Divine Bells simple magical charms, deities of great powers, or something else altogether? And when the owner of three of the eight existing Divine Bells dies, leaving them to choose new owners, where will the resulting turmoil lead?

Another blond mc i grew up with as a teen and reread a few time. And another ’king’ who is ’weak’. It’s in a fantasy world, where divine ’bells’ give each king (and thus each country) power. The mc country hasn’t been chosen by any bells for years, so quite look down upon. Until three bells at least or smthg choose the mc. And then they become people, with their own agenda. The mc didn’t want the attention but well can’t convince the bells to drop him xd. Which is why i loved this story. Once again, can’t escape fate even when you didn’t want it ~

Aegis Orta (Complete)

Val is an ordinary high school student who dedicates his life to God. His peaceful days however have to end when he learns about who he really is..

Very much in the same vibe of Godly Bells and Crepuscule, only I discovered it later and thus have less memories of it (bcs reread it less). It’s another blond character with red eyes that get ’fate’ thrown at its face ~ well. Demon powers. Same.

---

I’m not gonna put Mxtx’s works here (Heaven Official Blessing, Mo Dao Zu Shi, Scum Villain Self Saving System), but they’re great too. If you love comedy and tragedy and don’t mind BL too much. Go for it. I usually don’t enjoy romance that much but it didn’t bother me with those works, bcs it’s presented so naturally into the story rather than harassing us every second. Phantom Paradise is also a BL, although entirely different vibe. It’s what would happen with matriarchat instead of patriarchat but all the toxicity remain - only gender roles are reversed. As for why I enjoyed it so much... I guess I am still somewhat sensitive to fan service ? XD

I also feel like I should mention UnderPrin, even if it didn’t make it all the way to my favs, kind of similar vibe to Catharsis and Aegis Orta. I’ll also mention Makai Ouji: Devils and Realist which is a manga but another blond character in the same vibe of the earlier ones, who refuse his own power XD. And Pandora Hearts because its my favorite manga ever. I even prefer it to Black Haze (but I think someone who liked one would also like the other?).

[itsbeeble]

do you have any tbz recs? maybe with some angst with somewhat happy endings :/ found your blog and i’ve read through ~everything~ and am now in a brain rot

omg first of all thank you for reading my fics 🤭😝

As far as recs go i had to dig a little bit BUT I FOUND SOME OLD FAVORITESSSS LETS GOOOOO

First off: I ALWAYSSSS recommend reading any fics by @from-izzy , @sanaxo-o , @winterchimez , and @sungbeam when looking at the boyz. These four are absolutey incredible writers and honestly are the reasons i started writing more for tbz

Swing My Way by @sungbeam

it wont let me link it wtf but this fic is just so so so good i absolutely love fics like this whether its the idol who's the rich kid or the reader I LOVE THIS FIC SMMMM. It's richboy!eric which is even better (eric my love 😍)

Feeling Things by @jinkoh

idk what it is about android fics but they always have me feeling things (bah dum tssss). This is android!Hyunjae and the way its written is just absolutely beautiful and i will always recommend it

especially to you... by @from-izzy

this is a series written by my pookie izzy and i actually have to go back and reread it very very soon

Kissing In The Rain by @sanaxo-o

This one is written by sana by bff fr and it isnt angsty really but its a cute lil Changmin fic i love it hehe

I Belong To You by @tbzhub

This one is def angsty and a little spicy. I love love love sneaky link fics especially when someone is being an idiot and the other person is sick of them. Juyeon is better than me fr

Heart's Detour by @winterchimez

this godforsaken app wont let me link this fic wtf BUT essentially this is a biker sunwoo fic. i can't believe it's been almost a year since ally posted this masterpiece omg

Plot Twist by @sohnric

if this stupid app doesnt let me link these fics im gonna go crazy. This fic is actually an all time favorite. If you know me you know that i absolutely adore sunwoo (ignore my account and the fact that my bias is eric) and this fic is just so so so well written. It's also gonna turn a year old this month omg

These are some of my favorite fics rn PLS LMK IF YOU WANT MORE BC I'LL HUNT THROUGH THE ENDLESS SUPPLY OF FICS I HAVE

[allaboutlov3]

Okkkkkkk I NEED song recs about two lovers who broke up and they wanna be together but they can‘t.

[gullemec]

Ummm so... This was so insanely good. I absolutely LOVED Arthur in this, the way he cared for the reader, the way he wanted her, ugh, everything. This is the kind of fic that makes me want to be a better writer because I want to make people feel the kind of stuff this made me feel. 10000/10 ❤️

When a run-in with an O’Driscoll leads you to a fate worse than death, it’s up to Arthur to pick up the pieces. The road to healing is long, fraught, and difficult. Complete, December 2024.

Warnings: This fic has graphic descriptions of non-consensual sex, violence against women, the trauma thereafter, and somewhat unhealthy coping mechanisms. If any of that content makes you feel uncomfortable or triggers you, this may not be the fic for you.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

[capybaramurdock]

✦ BURNING IN THE SHAPE OF YOU ✦

chapter one: the fall

pairing: matt murdock x afab reader

setting: dungeons & dragons fantasy au

rating: mature 18+

warnings: canon-typical violence, blood and aftermath imagery, religious themes and crisis of faith, mentions of off-screen child harm (non-graphic, discussed), corrupt justice system themes, emotional break down/grief, temptation by infernal power, implied trauma responses/dissociation

word count: 958

Reader is called “Silver” by her order; no given name used

series masterlist | next chapter

❝ He stayed kneeling as the last divine sigil sputtered… and died. ❞

Summary: Justice was supposed to feel pure.

When a corrupt noble escapes conviction and his god remains silent, Paladin Matt Murdock is left kneeling in the blood of the innocent, begging for divine intervention that never comes.

Tyr doesn’t answer.

Zariel does.

At the altar, Matt’s oath begins to crack. He doesn’t say yes.

But he doesn’t say no.

༺ ⚖️ ༻

Justice was supposed to feel pure.

But the floor of the temple is drenched in blood. It runs in slow rivulets down the altar steps, pooling in the grooves of the marble, and Matt's gauntlets are dyed in it. Not his. Not innocent. But not righteous, either.

He kneels before the statue of Tyr—eyes shut, jaw clenched. He can feel the weight of it, etched in stone above him: unblinking, unyielding.

"They cried for help," Matt murmurs. "And you did nothing."

The silence answers back. No warmth. No divine spark. Not even the ache of withheld power—just nothing.

He breathes in the copper-salt stink of blood. Beneath that: sulfur. Faint. Distant. Watching.

"What good is law if it shields monsters?"

"What good is a god who turns away from justice?"

He waits.

Still...nothing.

And then, from somewhere far beyond the temple walls, he hears it.

A whisper.

A heat curling at the edge of his mind like smoke.

"You understand the truth now, don't you?"

His fingers curl tighter around the hilt of his blade.

"If they will not grant you justice…"

"I will."

═════ ⚖️ ═════

Hours earlier…

The Hall of Judgment is cold beneath his feet—perfect marble veined with silver, glowing faintly with divine sigils that flicker under the pressure of broken truth.

Matt stands in the paladin's circle, fists clenched at his sides, armor still marked with soot and blood from the raid. His voice has already been heard. His evidence was submitted. His soul poured bare.

And still, the tribunal does nothing.

The noble stands in the center ring, unbound. Untouched. His robes are pristine.

His smirk? Worse.

"The Council has reached its decision," the arbiter says from on high, voice reverberating through the chamber. "There is no proof of sanctioned blood magic. No living witnesses remain. The charges cannot be upheld."

Matt doesn't flinch. Doesn't breathe. But his jaw tightens.

His hand drifts to the hilt of his sword.

And silently, beneath his breath:

"Tyr…please. Let this be righteous. Let this be wrong. Give me something."

The statue looms behind the arbiter—blindfolded, impartial, sword-sheathed. Tyr's image doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.

Matt waits.

Nothing.

"You cannot be serious," he says. "I—"

"You presented your truth, Ser Murdock," the arbiter cuts in. "But the law does not bend for passion."

"He sacrificed them." Matt's voice sharpens like a blade. "Children. He sold their souls for power. I saw the remnants myself… runes drawn in blood. And you're letting him—"

"The divine does not act on rage." The arbiter's eyes narrow. "You speak like one who has forgotten his place."

Matt's breath catches. And inside him, something folds in half.

The noble turns slowly to face him. Smiles.

"You tried hard, didn't you?" he murmurs. "Dug through ash. Followed the stench. All for a few broken scraps of parchment and a basement full of bones."

Matt says nothing.

The noble leans closer, voice like a knife:

"Next time, paladin… be sure to leave fewer survivors. That's where you failed."

A long breath escapes through Matt's nose. His hand curls tighter around his sword's hilt.

On the floor between them, one of the divine runes flickers… and dies.

No one notices but him.

And not a single god stops it.

He doesn't draw the blade.

Not yet.

═════ ⚖️ ═════

Still in the temple of Tyr, kneeling at the darkened altar, Matt smells the stinging bite of sulfur grow stronger. It curls in the air like smoke beneath the incense, wrong. Unholy. Familiar.

Then:

A whisper.

Closer this time. Sharper. It slithers into his thoughts like it was always there.

"They all deserved better…and he could have been stopped…their deaths prevented…"

He flinches. Just slightly.

Silence.

Then—footsteps.

Not echoing. Not real. But he hears them anyway, from the base of the temple steps behind him. The voice takes on shape. Weight. Almost kind.

"Would you like to know how?...I can show you…"

A shiver cuts through him. Cold and hot at once. Like fire laced with snow.

And still, Matt doesn't rise. Doesn't turn.

He stays kneeling.

Because against his better judgment…

He wants to hear more.

Matt's breath catches. His knuckles are white on the altar.

"Say yes," the voice urges again. "And you'll never fail them again."

He shakes his head once, sharply.

"No," he rasps. "This isn't justice."

"It's what you wanted," Zariel says. "Not law. Not mercy. Power."

The silence in the temple rings louder than her voice.

Matt lowers his head.

"I wanted to save them," he whispers. "I tried."

Another pause. Longer.

"And now I'm offering you a way to make sure it never happens again."

He doesn't answer.

But he doesn't say no.

The fire flickers.

The sigils dim.

The first crack forms in the altar stone.

She waits.

Matt stays kneeling, head bowed, as if in prayer.

But he isn't praying anymore.

He's listening.

"You were made to bring justice," Zariel says, voice like coals raked across silk. "But they leashed you. Silenced you. Used you."

"I won't."

He doesn't speak.

He doesn't move.

But he stays.

And that's enough.

Behind him, the shadows near the temple steps twist...stretching into a long, elegant silhouette. Armor of scorched gold. Eyes like twin suns at dusk.

Zariel watches him with something like pity. Or perhaps patience.

At the far end of the chamber, something begins to form from the dark:

A sword… not holy, but forged from the memory of it.

Heavy. Ancient. Bound in runes of betrayal.

It hums with hunger.

Matt can feel it.

The weight in the air. The taste of iron on his tongue. The trace of warmth under his skin where his oath once lived.

He stays kneeling until the temple goes silent again.

Until the last divine sigil sputters…and dies.

༺ ⚖️ ༻

📖 Available on ao3 too: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66458593

🕊️ Taglist/updates: @place-called-space @crowleythesexydemon

🌙 Ask to be added to taglist!

🩷 Let me know what you think in the tags or replies ✨

[myinsanitysoul]

Bound by blood - Chapter 1

Synopsis: In a wizarding world ravaged by war, a new birthrate policy enforces arranged marriages between young adults to “rebuild magical society.” Evangeline Phantomhive, a brilliant and cynical Muggle-born, is forcibly wed to Draco Malfoy, a disillusioned former Death Eater. In a dim, sunless office, they sign a contract that binds them for life. Between bitterness, sidelong glances, sharp wit, and haunting pasts, they’ll have to learn to coexist… and maybe, understand each other.

Fandom: Black Butler x Harry Potter

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Evangeline Phantomhive (OC)

Themes : Forced marriage, post-war recovery, prejudice, redemption, slow-burn enemies-to-lovers, class divide, trauma, magical politics, family legacy, romantic tension

Trigger Warnings: Forced marriage, blood status discrimination (pureblood vs. Muggle-born), post-war trauma, misogynistic and xenophobic remarks, anxiety, nuanced consent, +18

Universe: Canon-divergent / Post-war AU (restrictive magical laws – reconstruction of the wizarding world after the war)

_______________________________________

Tuesday, March 15th, 2004 – London, Ministry of Magic, Department of Administration and Natality

Evangeline’s heels echoed against the polished floors of the Ministry of Magic.She was humming “God Save the Queen,” as she always did when anxiety gnawed at her nerves. The cause of her distress? Her own wedding. And yet, this was not the joyful event it was for most people.

She passed through the Ministry’s atrium, breathing shallowly as she spotted couples her age — or close to it — gathered in the grand hall.

Room N23.

The blonde stopped in front of the massive wooden door looming over her. It felt as though the building might swallow her whole — or perhaps it was just her cortisol — flooded body trembling uncontrollably.

“Now or never... Preferably never,” she muttered with a forced laugh. “Lord, help me.”

She knocked three times.

The ominous door creaked open with a cheerfulness far too gleeful for her misfortune. Still, she stood tall and walked in with apparent confidence, though her insides twisted with dread. Her green eyes scanned the small room. A middle-aged couple sat grimly off to one side, and three Ministry officials stood behind the oak desk facing her.

Her heart leapt into her throat when she noticed the two chairs before the officiant — one already occupied by a man whose hair was as pale as moonlight.

Her future husband.

A wizard who bore the beauty of an angel yet carried the weight of death. A former Death Eater.

The chair legs scraped sharply as she pulled it out and sat down. She didn’t look at him, and she had no idea whether he looked at her. But she felt eyes burning into the back of her head.

Her gaze roamed the room for any detail that might distract her from the nightmare she could not wake up from. The officiant opened his arms with a politically polished smile.

“Ah! Miss Phantomhive, we were just waiting on you!” the man sang with a voice too saccharine to be sincere.

She suppressed a shiver of discomfort. As he began reciting their marital duties, her eyes drifted — against her will — to the two empty chairs to her right.

The ones her parents should have occupied. But they’d been deemed too “Muggle” to attend their own daughter’s wedding. A rush of water drowned out the sounds around her, as if her ears had been submerged.

“Miss Evangeline Celestia Rachel Phantomhive, do you take Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy as your husband, and vow to fulfill the duties incumbent upon you?”

One. Two. Three heartbeats. Blood pounded in her ears, her mouth went dry. She opened her lips — then closed them again. She averted her gaze and nodded.The silence in the room was deafening, the world spinning around her like a hellish carousel.

She could have been anyone.

“Sign here.”

She could have fallen in love on her own, chosen her fate — like she had always dreamed.

Been free.

Instead, here she was, in a drab office where sunlight dared not enter, marrying into a pure-blood dynasty.

“I hope you’re not planning on shaving my head,” she muttered, her tone laced with dark humor.

A reference to the punishment given to women accused of consorting with Nazis during the Second World War. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the witnesses flinch and lower his gaze. The others didn’t react — confusion couldn’t pierce the icy atmosphere.

The quill trembled in her hand. She pressed too hard against the parchment, causing the nib to splatter ink as she signed her name.

“There you are — married. Congratulations. The Ministry of Magic is grateful for your participation in our reconstruction initiative,” the officiant declared, smiling with dead eyes.

She couldn’t stop the cynicism from slipping past her pale lips.

“Thanks. This is exactly how I imagined my wedding: dressed in black, in a windowless room untouched by sunlight, surrounded by people who look like they’re attending a funeral. Is this my marriage or a kidnapping?” she asked with a trembling voice and a nervous smile.

For the first time during the entire ceremony, she met the steel-gray eyes of her husband. Surprisingly, she didn’t see hatred there — only exhaustion and resignation.

Reflexively, she clutched the family ring her father had given her, seeking comfort. Because no matter what name she bore now, she would always be a Phantomhive.

Her thumb brushed against the blue gem — the Hope Diamond, as her father had called it. Once a necklace, it had been shattered; the Phantomhive family inherited half of it. The stone had a reputation for being cursed — for bringing tragic ends to its bearers.

Like her, she thought with an ironic smile.

She barely registered the disdainful look her new in-laws cast her way — likely thrilled to see their precious bloodline soiled by a Mudblood.

As they left the room, a bitter thought crossed her mind. Can’t wait for them to check my menstrual cycles.

Draco and she stood outside the office, both avoiding eye contact as if the other might contaminate them.

“Where will we live?” she asked, her voice slicing through the air like a blade through linen.

Draco looked up, miserable. “I have a house. A cottage. A short distance from Hogsmeade.”

“In Scotland?” she choked.

That meant she’d be far from her parents — still living in Surrey, in southern England, where they governed the county.

“Yes.”

And so, the bell tolled on her new life.

[jessread-s]

Thanks to the publisher for providing me with an ARC in exchange for an honest review

✩🐉✨Review:

A strong start to a romantasy series with endless potential!

“Fear the Flames” follows Elowen Atarah, an exiled princess, as she teams up with Cayden Veles, the feared Commander of Vareveth, to free her dragons and save her people. As forces beyond their control try to keep them apart, the pull between Elowen and Cayden becomes irresistible. 

The concept of this book immediately grasped my attention. It was the reluctant allies-to-lovers romance that drew me in further! Elowen and Cayden’s knife to the throat meet-cute put me in a chokehold and I was living for their banter. Their dynamic is truly incredible and the tension had my heart pounding.

Unfortunately, the pacing and aspects of the writing are what lost me. While Cayden fell first, he also fell very fast. Many readers might like this if they prefer instantaneous chemistry, but I tend to like books where the relationship development moves more slowly, so I did not enjoy how quick it felt. Much of their dialogue, aside from the banter, was also clunky and cringey at times. 

As far as the plot, the heist was the main focus, so I was a bit let down when it missed the mark. There was a lot of build-up surrounding it only for it to be done and over with so quickly. Nearly everything was executed perfectly without a hitch, so it just ended up being anticlimactic. 

Overall, I appreciate this book’s vision and really liked some of its elements despite its setbacks. I’m interested to see what direction Darling takes the next book now that the groundwork has been laid.

Cross-posted to: Instagram | Amazon | Goodreads | StoryGraph

[mr-and-mr-mitchell]

You Can Take The Girl Out Of Sparta, But You Can't Take Sparta Out Of The Girl

After two long years since her husband's abduction, Penelope and her team embark on a rescue mission.

[theoharacollection]

MAUREEN O'HARA: A WOMAN OF BEAUTY, STRENGTH, & DIGNITY

In Memory of The Queen of Technicolor

In loving memory of one of Ireland's greatest gifts to cinema, The O'Hara Collection is devoted to the films and collective works of actress, Maureen O'Hara. The goal of this blog is to showcase her wonderful spirit and shed light on her glorious career as one of the Golden Age's finest. Later dubbed The Queen of Technicolor, O'Hara not only dressed her films with her fiery red hair and brilliant green eyes, but she also had a talent for acting that even rivaled her beauty. There will never be another like her.

Maureen O'Hara was born August 17th, 1920. She passed October 24th, 2015. She was 95 years old.

Interviews and commentary sampled from the following featurettes: -A Tribute to Maureen O'Hara with Hayley Mills, Juliet Mills, and Ally Sheedy -The Making of The Quiet Man (hosted by Leonard Maltin) -The Making of Rio Grande (written and hosted by Leonard Maltin)

Song: Maggie's Theme from The Parent Trap Soundtrack

Films Used In Order of Appearance: Lisbon (1956) w/ Ray Milland Jamaica Inn (1939) w/ Charles Laughton The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1939) w/ Charles Laughton How Green Was My Valley (1941) w/ Walter Pidgeon Against All Flags (1952) w/ Errol Flynn The Black Swan (1942) w/ Tyrone Power Spencer's Mountain (1963) w/ Henry Fonda Our Man in Havana (1959) w/ Alec Guinness Mr. Hobbs Takes A Vacation (1962) w/ Jimmy (James) Stewart The Parent Trap (1961) w/ Hayley Mills The Quiet Man (1952) w/ John Wayne The Rare Breed (1966) w/ Juliet Mills McLintock! (1963) w/ John Wayne Rio Grande (1950) w/ John Wayne The Wings of Eagles (1957) w/ John Wayne Only the Lonely (1991) w/ Ally Sheedy & John Candy

[bucktommyweek]

Getting to Know You - Masterlist

Week 1: Favourite Things

Ddn’t know what  was missing, til you walked in like a vision by reyesdiaz

Something to Share by jamesandanthony

Take off and fly and dive right in by hearteyestommykinard

Tommy’s Favourite Things by Regent_of_Rarepairs

Craft Beer & Love, Actually by Regent_of_Rarepairs

Week 2: A Good Morning

Yours by jamesandanthony

Why do stars fall out of the sky when you walk by thefootnotes

My eyes are caught in your gaze all over again by aesthetictarlos

Week 3: A Bad Night

All Through the Night by jamesandanthony

Put the pain behind you now, we don’t need it anymore by thefootnotes

I was never meant to fight on my own by aesthetictarlos

------

Thank you for those who participated, all of your fics are amazing and I can't wait to read them properly, kudos and comment.

Please give these writers some love, they definitely deserve it.

If your fic is missing or you've filled a prompt late comment on this post.

Wishing you all well, and warmth and love.

@alilypea

[arcane-fox]

These are some PPCU fics I have read and enjoyed this past month and would like to recommend. Some new. Some Old. All have smut. I apologize the list is so short this month… it’s been a rough one and I’m trying to get out from under this dark cloud. I am going to be doing a monthly rec list in an attempt to read more and help reblog and support some amazing authors out there. Please show them some love. Read all warnings! Not everything is for everyone and that is ok. Please always comment AND reblog fics you enjoy to show love to the authors 🖤

Joel Miller

Solstice // @covetyou Three little words. Joel heard those same three words damn near every day for the last seven months. Most days, they were the only words you said to him. Sometimes, if he was lucky, you'd say them more than once. Other days, you didn't say anything to him at all. He liked those days least of all.

A Step Into Hell // @aurorawritestoescape After you move into his house, Joel finds himself possessed by the idea of having you. Trying to quench his lustful thirst he decides to get his hands on your nudes. To his surprise he finds something even better. Stepdad!Joel

Honey, Stomach, Mine // @netherfeildren Existence is a needful thing. Choice is fickle, nature inescapable. Run to the end of the world, Joel, all those things will still find you. A/B/O

Purr // @joelstummy Joel is a simple landlord. He is really very generous, offering up great deals on his spare apartment units for desperate parents housing their new college students. But he does have one stipulation: No Pets. When an innocent little Freshman breaks that rule, Joel has another deal on deck to make it right again. DarkLandlord!Joel

Lost in the Dark (series) // @iamasaddie One time you decide to cheat on your boyfriend is, of course, the time his dad catches you. Once normal relationship turns into something new, and you are forced to face the fucked up reality of your life. BoyfriendsDad!Joel

Change // @pedgito Joel hates change, but you introduced the idea that letting someone else take charge isn't always bad.

Throat Coat // @strang3lov3 Joel doesn’t make your sore throat feel better, but he does make it worse. DarkDaddy!Joel

A Firm Partner // @whocaresstillthelouvre Mr. Miller needs you to stay late... even if tomorrow is your birthday. Lawyer!Joel

General Marcus Acacius

Love is Heartbreak // @myownwholewildworld Kissed by the goddess juno on your day of reckoning, you are brought back to life, condemned to wander the earth for a century. until you meet the other half of your soul who offers you the life you yearn for.

Frankie Morales

Eyes on the Mirror // @itwasntimethatdidit40 You're at a turning point in your relationship with Frankie, he tells you that his mother insists on meeting you.

Agent Jack Daniel’s

Rope & Ride // @magpiepills Jack gets more than he bargained for when he gets too comfortable doing surveillance

ICYMI (Previous Fic Recs): December Banner by me. Dividers by @saradika 🖤

[ninugh29]

I love reading 2000s/2010s niche YA books about teen girls in high school like it’s simply my favorite thing ever (Gallagher girls series by Ally Carter, Also Known As by Robin Benway, The Fixer by Jennifer Lynn Barnes). I’m currently reading All-American Girl by Meg Cabot and the only thing I hate about reading these books (besides the not-like-other-girls-ism and occasional misogyny that exposes them as very clearly a product of their time) is how little to non existent the fandoms for them are. Like, I get they’re aimed at younger people but I can’t be the only one reading them right now 😭.

(I also hate how when someone asks what I read and I say one of these I get made fun of? Like sorry we don’t all enjoy reading wuthering heights every second of the day and enjoy fun lighthearted literature every once in a while. Have you tried removing that stick from your ass and having fun?)