#billy: fuck you

[krysmcscience]

I have some questions about karaoke night, Alex Hirsch. Very Important Questions. Which I will happily scream at a poor hapless baby triangle who can have no answers for me, and possibly also does not have object permanence yet.

Follow-up that is I guess suggestive, but let's be real here, Bill's a fucking triangle:

Dude slipped right into his birthday suit, lmao

this is so stupid :D

Anyway, I don't care what anyone says, this brilliant individual knows what's up - Bill is absolutely way more of a monsterfucker than Ford could or ever will be, full stop.

[agathasblackheart]

The way Teen’s tipping point was Agatha saying he was just like his mother and then showing off the infamous Wanda mind control powers and then getting his own lil crown

[devflamme]

begging you people to just be normal about today's episode. "oh we did not get an agathario kiss" "i dont care about billy" "worst episode ever"... but we did get a gay kiss in a MARVEL show on fucking DISNEY PLUS. isnt that something to be happy about? that we're getting more queer rep in marvel? or are people just watching the show for agatha and rio? fuck the lore then? fuck the storytelling? fuck everything? oh please

[biillys]

yeah idk what the fuck this is but got thinking about billy surviving and being in hospital??? whatever. here's this.

okay the idea of post-starcourt, billy surviving and having just two regular hospital visitors. max and tommy h. occasionally carol, too.

them sitting seats apart in the waiting room, waiting for billy to finally be stable enough to get moved from the ICU. watching on as surgeons and doctors tell neil to prepare for the worst. that the injuries billy suffered were catastrophic. to get ready to say goodbye.

except billy doesn't die. instead, he stays critical, he stays in the danger zone, under twenty four hour watch and care, for what feels like an eternity, and then suddenly, he's labelled critical but stable, and they're getting the details of his new room number, only two floors down.

max basically moving in to the seat beside him, visiting as much as possible, feeling so fucking guilty. can still hear billy begging and pleading in her head, 'please believe me, max' playing on loop whenever she tries to close her eyes. she avoids sleep now. has to be dragged home and to bed by susan most nights.

tommy coming after school and the occasional weekend, sitting by billy's bedside, having no clue what to do or what to say, doesn't even know what happened that night to put billy in such a state, just knows that he doesn't want to leave. thinks about the fact that billy used to be constantly surrounded by a group at school and on the court, at the pool, an audience wherever he went, and now, they're all nowhere to be seen.

billy taking forever to wake up, his injuries taking their toll, doctors throwing around words like vegetative state and low brain activity. tommy heard the murmurings of brain death and felt sick to his stomach, max turning to him with a white face, looking scared, and so fucking young.

but then, he does wake up, and suddenly everything's so much more complicated, but there's also a light at the end of the tunnel. the light being–billy's alive.

billy can heal, recover, live. build a future–a life–because he's alive.

he lived.

except it's not that easy, because living is hard. healing is hard. recovery is hard. surviving a nightmare you never asked to endure by the skin of your teeth hurts.

breathing hurts.

living hurts.

max wants to shake billy by the shoulders some days. tell him she watched him die on the floor. take his last breath. and now he's here, hooked up and monitored, a machine giving proof that his heart's beating every single minute of every single day.

billy wants to yank the wires off his chest, the needles out of his arms. he never asked to be saved.

tommy spent so long feeling clueless on what to say or do before billy woke up, wishing that he'd just open his eyes and show signs of life, so that they could just kick back and shoot the shit like they used to, billy heckling him and tommy letting him do it, that he never even considered this side of it. of billy being awake, and in more pain than tommy would probably ever feel in this lifetime. that the great, big, bad, billy hargrove, current reigning keg-stand king, could look so small and empty, completely lifeless of the guy he used to go to school with.

billy spends the first few weeks after waking up floating in and out of delirium, some days completely unaware of visitors and nurses alike, other days flinching at nothing, eyes darting around the room like it's a trap, and he's the prey. he doesn't seem to be aware of either of them most of the time, and the few times he's lucid enough to comprehend them, it's a toss up whether he even knows who they are.

he seems to recognise max more, giving her the cold shoulder one time when max tried to help him and the nurse with his bandages, him eventually bursting out a disjointed growl about his skateboard. the last time max made the mistake of touching billy's skateboard was way back when–years ago–before neil and susan had even gotten married. she backed off then, just like she did the first time, and two hours later, billy was back to looking at her like she was a stranger, and when she tried to say sorry, he looked at her like she was talking gibberish.

another time, he looks at max, desperation on his face, and begs her to call argyle to come pick them up. says that if she calls him now before dinner time, then argyle should be able to steal the pizza van and come get them, that they could both finally escape, that they'll be gone before their parents even notice them being late for tea. max feels bile rise in her throat. doesn't know how to tell him that they're not at home, and they're not in california. that he can't even sit up without help, let alone run away.

that susan hasn't been by in two days, his dad at least a week.

she can't hold back the few tears that slip, and just when she thinks he's about to get mad at her, he falls asleep.

he recognises tommy at least once. looks at him the most lucid tommy's seen him since he woke up and asks him in complete sentences if coach is mad that he's missing so much practice. tommy hesitates. remembers one of the nurses saying that going along with the confusion is okay. that trying to correct him can just lead to more confusion, that it could just lead to irritation and anger. swallows and tells him that he's fine. that coach wants him to just focus on recovering. 'they replaced me on the team yet?' he croaks, eyes wet but looking determined not to cry. tommy thinks about how the seasons over, high schools over, and there is no team to come back to. thinks about the special assembly they held in billy's name back when billy was still in the ICU, and classmates used him as an excuse to get extensions on their school work. opens his mouth to try fumble out a reply when a nurse walks in, and suddenly billy forgets he's even there, instead focused on fighting the nurse on his liquid dinner.

there's a journal on billy's hospital side table that's filled with mostly max's handwriting, but a fair bit of tommy's too. susan's scrawled in it once or twice, and billy's regular nurses and doctors take notes and read it over everyday. in it has the date of every single day that billy's been there since billy's regular night nurse suggested it, and any notes they think need sharing. 'remembered me today', 'hallucinating his father', 'eyes clear, talked in full sentences', 'fevered state, temper when awake', 'stayed awake for three consecutive hours', 'complained of the cold, didn't seem to be able to self-regulate body temperature'

billy being awake, and having no control.

he's never had control, not once his entire life, but this time, it's different.

when he was younger, up until just months ago, it was his own personal monster, trying to raise him in his own image. his dad. always around, overbearing, his every word becoming law. if billy stepped out of line, he'd know it, he'd pay for it, and he'd never forget it. he still managed to toe the line though, unable to just stand back and take whatever he was given. liked to pretend that maybe one day, he'd walk right over the line. get the last word in. maybe even fight back. take back every bit of control that had been taken from him.

then, it was a monster of a whole new kind, one that was bigger than him, bigger than the fucking world, and it was in his head, controlling his body, using his face and hands, and telling him things. picking him to pieces, every single broken part of him, until billy was nothing but a wreck, begging with the last few pieces of himself he could gather for someone to hear him, to help him.

and then, he slayed that monster with his bare hands, and he finally found peace, knowing it was all about to be over. he stepped over that line, and he took control back, he won, and it was done. he could sleep. he could rest. no more suffering, no more pain.

it was done.

but then he wakes up, and there's a beeping noise and there's needles and there's strangers hands poking and prodding him, there's a light that never turns off and the heat's never turned on, and he's so fucking cold and he can't fucking breathe, and he knows the girl sitting by his side is important, know's she threw up strawberry ice-cream after her middle school graduation, know's he pushed her off her surfboard the second time she caught a wave, knows he knows her name, how he knows her, but he fucking can't. opens his mouth to bitch at her for reading the shittiest comics to him, but it's like his mouth's not connected to his brain, and nothing comes out, his mind going completely empty the second he tries to string together a sentence, and he wants to scream, but he can't even do that, either.

listens to the nurses and specialists when they tell him about his future, about the step by step plan they have for him. about how he's a miraculous case and he has potential, that nothing's impossible, as long as he puts the work in. wants to tear the room apart and all their brochures and information sheets, all their fucking dreams, wants to yell at them all and ask if they really think he's got a future. he can't eat, he struggles to breath, he sure as shit can't walk, it's been weeks and he still can't even piss. and they all think he wants a future.

he wants to be in the dirt, or maybe drifting out to sea. wants to be weightless, where no pain can touch him, and nothing can hurt him.

he wants to be free.

they push the rehabilitation brochure forward.

he gathers enough motor skills to push the pamphlet to the floor, accidently knocking the cup of water, too.

they look at him with pity in their eyes.

he's too exhausted to even scream.

both the girl and the guy are there the next time he opens his eyes, and he looks at them and he knows their names. they ask him how he's doing. he goes back to sleep.

tommy h wouldve tried to save billy

[galaxyweighted]

autism so intense he forgot he was supposed to be slicing and dicing and got distracted by one of his favorite movies

[mh2o29]

rotating them in my mind like a microwave

[jubshead]

I saw some people pissed by Agatha not getting a redemption arc at the end of the series, but the real reason is: she shouldn't get one.

She killed so many witches and did terrible things and nothing is going to change that at the end of the day.

I think what they gave us is so much stronger, you see how she’s filled with trauma and can't make herself trust anyone besides herself and her son.

She doesn’t kill witches, because she feels like. She’s a succumbs, she needs the energy in order to survive and that’s something her mother could never understand.

After she figured out how to control her powers I’m sure she could have joined a coven and she’d receive help from them.

But who would trust a kind of witch who has a defense as an attack? And how could Agatha trust anyone after her own coven and mother tried to kill her?

Redemption arcs are more times than not extremely forced, people’s actions shouldn’t be forgiven by a single action. They made us understand Agatha as a whole character, with flaws, traumas and depth and know that, ultimately, her life lead her into doing terrible things, that have no excuse.

[macfrog]

fucking diabolical | one shot

i don't have a semblance of an explanation for this one. i've fallen off the ledge and i'm never coming back. if you know, you fucking know.

pairing: billy butcher x f!reader summary: you move in across the street. butcher notices. warnings: unspecified age gap, infidelity, unprotected car sex, creampie, daddy kink, breeding kink (one mention of pregnancy), softdom! & soft!billy...? weird. word count: 3.6k

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Six days. He made it six days.

He’s not this weak a man, is he? Is he really? To stand by the living room window, whiskey in hand, white-knuckle grip threatening to shatter the glass. Five minutes. Only five more minutes.

To watch your figure float between rooms, flicking lamps on and flitting blinds closed. A patchwork façade, now become an almost nightly routine. Polite little home on a polite little street, on this polite little evening.

You’ll leave the radio on in the hallway. Your neighbors will never know.

He’s not so weak to feel himself harden at the mere thought: your body bending backwards under his, his every move stealing the sweetest of sighs. Leaden weight in his pants, painful and premature and at the same time – a fucking relief, honestly.

Relief that he’s still alive, somewhere inside himself. Relief that he can feel something other than burning rage, simmering resentment. Relief that he can still spot a right fucking sort when he sees one.

Billy’s not a weak man.

You just might be testing his willpower, is all.

It’s been a month since you moved in. Since you first crossed paths across the street. He was walking Terror, cooling off after another spat with the missus. Never fucking listens, does she, old boy? Never. I ain’t tryna cause a fight, but she makes it so bloody –

Hang about. Who’s this?

You looked too good to be true. Boosting yourself up into the back of the moving truck, dipping into the shadows for the one, two, three steps it took him to reach the curb. He could feel the ricochet of his pulse through every vein in his body.

You resurfaced in the light, nudging a brown box towards the ledge with the heel of your shoe. Skimpy little shorts, Billy noted, your skin glistening with sweat and sun.

When you hopped back down, your breasts – Jesus fuck, your breasts – they bounced so perfectly into place. Full and round and fucking delicious beneath that tank top.

Billy loves a challenge, doesn’t he? Fly little bugger. Didn’t matter to him when your little twat of a husband came scurrying out, scooped up the box and, following your direction, staggered like some pathetic drunkard back inside.

Didn’t matter to him, and didn’t seem like it mattered to you. At least, not when you caught sight of your new neighbor and took one looping glance – from raveled boots to rugged beard, lingering on the Hawaiian shirt in the middle – and then smiled.

Smiled like you knew you were about to ruin his fucking life.

Hi.

Hello, love. Moving day, is it?

You gestured to your feet, then to the Tetris block boxes in the back of the truck. Bit of a shitshow so far.

Looks like it. Need a hand?

He could’ve sworn you were considering it, the way you paused. The way your hands crossed to cover the ring on your third finger.

You rolled your tongue from one cheek to the other. Thanks, you decided, I think we’re good.

And then, just as Billy made to cross the street, you cast another line.

Nice neighborhood?

His mouth twisted into that sick smirk of his. Muscle memory. He had you ensnared already. He glanced over his shoulder. Hm?

I’m not from around here. Is it a nice neighborhood?

He staggered back over, stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘s alright, yeah. Few wronguns, couple curtain-twitchers.

Terror sniffed a trail between the boxes at your feet. His leash wrapped around your bare legs.

You knelt to cup his blocky head, scratch the folds of fur between his ears. Curtain-twitchers, huh? you echoed to the pup. And which category does your daddy fall into?

Billy’s fist locked around the leash. He could already feel it: the rush of blood heading somewhere he knew it fucking shouldn’t.

Neither, he replied. Yet.

You looked up at him. All doe-eyed and innocent. Younger than him by a decent amount, so it looked. A light in your eyes and a fullness in your cheeks that gave you away instantly.

You looked brand new. Lovely little thing; a baby crease between your brows as you ruffled the dog’s snowy fur and stood up, mirroring Billy’s suspicious smirk.

So fucking sweet. So sweet, in fact, that Billy wanted to chew you up and spit you back out. Wanted to see how much of a mess he could make of such a pretty girl.

He’s always known just how to ruin a good thing, hasn’t he?

Well, you cleared your throat, it was nice to meet you, uh…

Butcher, he said, holding a paw of a hand out. Billy Butcher.

Billy Butcher, you echoed. I look forward to seeing where we both turn out.

Forty-five seconds still on the clock, he gives in.

Gives in to the need thrumming through his bones, so electric he can’t stand still. Gives in to his fluttering heart and the way it falters with each sighting of your silhouette.

Gives in to the fucking brick in his pants, the painful ache and the feeling like bruising each time it ruts against his jeans.

Can’t help himself, can he? He’s already bursting at the seams. He hasn’t touched you in – Christ, Billy, it’s only been eighteen hours – but fuck it.

You’re the only good thing about his day. The only relief he gets, the only time he feels like himself.

The only thing Billy has to look forward to these days, is pushing his cock inside someone else’s wife.

Ain’t that a fucking thing? Fuuuckin’ hell.

He thinks, swaggering down his front steps, that he should feel bad about it. He almost wishes he could.

He thinks, watching you mirror him across the street – collar up, head down, the way he’d taught you the first night – that he should call it quits. Tonight, last night, last week. This affair should never have started in the first place.

He thinks, as he sighs into his car and you strut off in the opposite direction, that he should let you go. Tell you to turn around, head back home. Back to your husband, back to your life – unblemished by Billy’s messy, poisoned hands.

He should let you go back to that girl he met on the side of the road. Ring on her finger, dimple in her cheek. A twinkle of innocence as bright as sunlight in her eye.

But you pause at the end of the street. Billy catches it in his rearview. You pause, twirl on your heel, and stare back at the Cadillac. Your arms come up – something of a signal, a prompt. He should have the engine running by now. He should be on his way to the meeting spot.

Billy thinks, if he’s half the man he’s spent his entire life trying to be, that he owes it to himself not to turn the key. To get back out of the car, and never watch for the shadow of you ever again.

He knows he’s not half the man he should be. And why the fuck would he be, anyway? He ain’t exactly got a decent lineup of role models to choose from. A seed planted in shit can grow into as tall a tree as it wants – the roots will always be steeped in shit.

Sod it.

The engine rumbles to life, and so does he.

Billy pulls the Cadillac in to the usual spot. A couple blocks from your street, the place is perpetually deserted – save for a couple stumbling teenagers last week and a meddling raccoon the week before.

You’re loitering beneath the cover of some trees, avoiding the splotches of amber streetlight. Hands in your pockets; shoulders bunched. Almost a month of sneaking around and still, each time, he almost mistakes you for some other ghost on the street.

The door whips open. You sink into the passenger seat.

“Don’t tell me you almost got cold feet.”

His eyebrows quirk. “That sound like me?”

You bite down on a cheeky grin. That dimple of yours makes itself at home. “Thought you were about to bail on me. Car trouble? Couldn’t get it to start?”

“Hm,” Billy pinches your chin, “That don’t sound like me either.”

He could swear he feels you nuzzle into his grasp; could swear your gaze softens just a little. But it’s dark outside, even darker in here, and he’d do well to remember exactly who you are, and exactly who he is.

Selfish, careless, irresponsible. A right cunt. Broken from the inside out, a black chasm which splits the four chambers of his heart. It’s in his bones, in his blood.

The kind of man who flirts with the neighbor, who meets her in a backstreet and fucks her in his car. The kind of man who goes home afterwards and showers her perfume from his skin; who plays with himself until he’s hard all over again just from the memory.

The kind of man whose wife reckons the new couple look happy. Honeymoon phase, she’ll say, and then drift off into some other corner of the house.

Billy lets his hand drop. “Come on, then,” he says, putting the car into park. “Ain’t got all night.”

He’s never bored of it.

Never bored of the smutty smirk on your face, or the way you skip around to the backseat. Never bored of that first touch, the heat on his skin that meets your frozen fingertips. Never bored of the way you melt into him, the need pouring from your body as soon as Billy pulls you into his lap.

There’s a thrill to it. A kind of ecstasy he hasn’t felt in years. For the sliver of night that you share together, he can be exactly who he wants to be.

It just so happens to be who you want, too.

He lifts the tee from your shoulders, teeth dragging between your collarbones. Across red lace and strap, pausing only to suck a delicate mark into the plush of your chest.

You giggle, throwing your head back. “No proof,” you pull his jaw away, “He’ll see that, you know he will.”

Billy nips at your bottom lip. “Tell ‘im he left it.”

“Ha,” you roll your eyes, “Good one.”

He toys with the lace on your hips, slipping a hand between your legs. “Poor baby,” he pouts, “Ain’t got no one to touch her at home.”

Your spine curls when he cups your mound. Tongue pokes at the corner of your mouth, eyes flood black; a wild animal eyeing her next meal.

He swirls his middle finger, teasing your clit over your underwear. “Make a mess in ‘em, sweetheart, just for me.”

“They’re already a mess for you,” you grit, nails digging into his shoulders. You grind into his palm, hips stuttering. “They’re – always – a mess – for you.”

He can feel it – the damp material at his fingertips, the warm wet on the inside of your thighs. You need this as much as he does. And that’s all this is, right? Helping each other out, being neighborly. A favor asked and answered inside of an hour.

Lend me some milk, water my houseplants. Fuck me until I can’t fucking think straight.

His cock strains against his jeans. Any longer and he’ll be making a mess in his own fucking underwear.

He kisses along the ridge of your jaw, sliding a hand up your spine to unhook your bra.

You shake the lingerie from your body, fucking perfect tits jiggling between your arms. Bare on top of him now – nothing but a scrap of lace over your hips and a sinful smile on your lips.

You fiddle with the buttons on his shirt, writhing still with the pressure he’s quickly building between your hips. Grinding into him, hungrier and hungrier.

“Stupid fucking shirt,” you groan, ripping the floral pattern from his shoulders. Your hands find the plain of his chest; solid, dappled with dark hair, chain catching the streetlight and reflecting it in your eyes.

Billy laughs to himself. He pulls his hand from between your legs, sucks the tease of slick from his fingers, and guides your lips down to his. “Come here.”

No, he’s not a weak man. He’s been a fighter his entire life. Fists that have broken bone, words that have crumbled foes to dust. If you ain’t already a cunt, the world will make a cunt of you, yeah?

But here, now, you – undoing his belt, tossing it to the footwell; pushing the denim from his hips. You, giggling when he bucks you up to rid himself of his underwear, and your head hits the roof of the car.

You, taking his stiff cock in both hands, biting down on a moan when you feel the weight of him –

You might just be the thing that breaks him.

He thrusts up into your grip. “Drivin’ me off my head, you are,” he groans, burying his face in your chest when you squeeze.

“Good,” you reply, spitting into your palm. “’s what you do to me, anyway.”

You drag warm saliva over his length, slipping lower to massage his balls. So big and heavy in your hand, though Billy knows you’re being gentle.

Everything about you is gentle. Even while breaking your most solemn vow – the bullshit promises you made to that cunt at the altar – you’re so sweet with it. A favor, sure – but you want to make him feel good. You still want to pretend it’s real.

Only – there’s not enough time. Your husband will be home any minute, Billy’s wife has probably already noticed he’s gone. There are only so many excuses that an hour can allow, and the longer he spends admiring the way you caress his ball sack, the more of those excuses are written off.

For now, the back of his Cadillac behind a dilapidated Burger King will have to do.

“Alright,” Billy croaks, pausing your movements with a light hand on your wrist. “Gotta let me fuck you now, sweetheart. Been waiting all day for it, haven’t I?”

You chew on your lip, guiding his cock to your entrance.

His tip notches at your hole, so warm and snug just for him. He can feel how tight you still are, even after a month of him. Still not used to the size, the way he punches the air straight out of your lungs with that first thrust.

He wonders if you’re still having sex with your husband. Stupid question, maybe, but he does. He wonders whether, when the bloke slips inside, you feel yourself aching around him. Feel your cunt needing more, needing him.

The thought drains his head of any blood and sends it straight to his dick. He leans back against the headrest and pulls your cunt down over him.

The sound you make is almost enough to send him over already. A tiny squeak, a yelp which shatters into the most beautiful sound he’s heard all day. Need. Need and want, laced up and tied into the form of a pretty girl on his cock.

Need and want, which happens to push the word over her tongue just as he goes to ask for it.

“Daddy,” you whine, head rolling across Billy’s shoulder. Your hips are still, split open on top of him as your cunt adjusts to the intrusion.

“There she is,” he whispers into the shell of your ear, smirking. “’s my girl, let Daddy open her up a little.”

So fucking tight, it almost hurts. He can’t remember the last time he was inside someone who gripped him this much. Like you don’t want him to move at all, just stay put between your walls and let you call the shots.

“That feel okay, darlin’?” Billy asks, helping you straighten.

You look down to where your bodies connect – the dark trail of hair on his groin meeting yours. The twist of lace, underwear warped to make room for the width of his cock.

You brace yourself with two hands on his stomach, and push up. Only an inch, barely enough for any relief, but when you drop down on him again, you wince.

“She’ll get there,” he says, slipping a hand around the small of your back. He cradles you in the crook of his arm, kisses the hinge of your jaw. “Just gotta give her a little bit a’ time, don’t we?”

“Yeah, Daddy,” you reply, in a bottled voice. You link your own arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him.

He lifts his hips, gently bucking until your whimpers quieten. Until the crease between your brow smooths, replaced with creases at the corners of your lips. A smile, a satisfied thing – her daddy always makes her feel better, doesn’t he?

Always blurs the edges of her pain. The relief after a long, shitty day; the escape from a long, shitty marriage. The need met; the want fulfilled. The hunger satiated, until eight p.m. the following night when you pull your hood up and go for another one of your walks.

You chant it to him, like with each syllable you’re turning the pain into pleasure. Daddy Daddy Daddy. Each one higher than the last, each one more desperate.

Your walls squeeze around him. You grind down against the thick hair at his base; clit swollen and soaked with your wet and his.

Billy’s eyes roll closed. He slips his fingers through yours, feels the cold brush of your wedding ring on his skin.

A good man would snap out of it. A good man would glance down at the strip of gold around his own finger, and call the whole thing off. Stuff himself back into his pants, drive the both of you home. Never look the road you’re on again, never look at another woman who isn’t his wife.

But his wife’s not here. Hasn’t been here, for longer than Billy would like to admit.

You’re here. Dove of a girl, soft coos from her lips and little fluttering movements. Good girl, right in his lap, begging him to tear her apart.

And thank fuck he’s not a good man.

He grits his teeth, jaw clenching around a pathetic moan. “Daddy’s gonna come, darlin’, gonna fill her right up.”

“Daddy,” you pant, “Daddy, I’m – I’m ovulating, please –”

“Good,” he grunts, slamming in again, “Means you’ll take it all then, won’tcha?”

You slur something of a laugh into his chest. Your thighs clench around his waist, rutting begins to falter. You dig your nails into his shoulders and, with a sobbing moan, you come hard around his cock.

“Oh, my God – Billy,” you gasp, hands grabbing the hair at the base of his skull. You give it a sharp tug and tilt his head skyward.

Billy comes with a guttural moan, a sound that tears from the base of his throat and echoes into your mouth. His cock pulses inside you, emptying into your little cunt.

Nothing has ever felt so fucking right, he realizes, than this cramped backseat. A tight squeeze, all of it – the sweet pinch of your pussy around his cock, the sweat and sex coating the windows in a hazy film.

The stars in his vision spatter, fading into the dull car. He settles back with a sigh.

You giggle, swaying to and fro in his lap. When you slip off, his cock settles heavy and soaked on his groin.

“Hold it,” Billy says, snapping your underwear back into place. “You hold it all in there.”

“Okay,” you smile, wrapping your arms around one of his, “Okay, Daddy.”

He closes his eyes. For a moment, he allows himself to fade out of this stifling backseat and to somewhere fresher, cleaner. Unbroken and untainted. No vows or golden rings suffocating either of you.

For a moment, he could almost believe it.

At his side, he hears the ruffling of denim. The flick of a lighter, once, twice, and then the soft crackling of a cigarette burning. The thick stench of tobacco fills the car.

“You wanna know something?”

You ask it quietly, timidly.

Billy snaps back to the Cadillac. His eyes flutter open. “What?”

You twirl the cig between your fingers, watching the snaking smoke bend and twist. “This is all I have. The only time I feel like I’m above the waves. Everything else is just…fucking…”

“…drowning,” he says.

You hum an agreement and lift the cigarette to his lips. “Isn’t that awful? I mean, we’re fucking awful people, aren’t we?”

Billy takes a long drag. The question fills his lungs, sour as smoke. “Not you,” he says, lifting his chin to exhale over your head. “Not you.”

“Hey,” you tug on his arm, “How come you get to be the cunt, and I don’t?”

He answers with an empty shrug, another cloud of smoke obscuring you from his vision.

“What would we do if you got me pregnant?” you ask, wafting the air.

He scoffs. “You’re askin’ if we’d pretend it was his?”

You shrug. “Sure. Would we?”

He rests his chin on your head. “S’pose we’d have to,” he utters, watching the blur of headlights soar by the parking lot. “You want to admit this is what you’re up to every fuckin’ night?”

“No.”

“No,” he repeats.

“It would be a shitstorm, though,” you snicker. The cherry glows again as you suck on the end.

“Fuckin’ diabolical,” Billy agrees.

[buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger]

I love how the comments of every post Marvel makes about Agatha All Along is filled with MCU Bros™️ saying "who wanted this"/"nobody wanted this"/"no one asked for this"

Wrong. It was me. I asked for this.

[enchantedflameandflower]

need this man more than I need air…

(nsfw) pov: Billy asks you to strip for him while he finishes his cigarette. When you’re bare he drags his gaze over your body, head to toe, hot and intense.

Setting his beer aside and putting his cigarette out he finally beckons you to him with two fingers. You crawl on to the bed and tug at his boxers until they’re off and his cock is hard and hot, jutting up toward his belly. You know what you want.

In the next moment his hands are tangled tight in your hair and his leaking cock is filling your mouth. When you take him to the back of your throat he groans that you’re his good girl.

You’re already aching and dripping for him, but you know he can keep this up for a while. He urges you to take his thick cock even deeper and your cunt throbs in response, clenching around nothing.

Later, Billy repays the favor, his tongue dancing entire recitals over your swollen, throbbing clit, while his strong hands hold your thighs splayed apart against the bed. When you tug roughly on his hair he loses it, shifting to thrust deep into your body and rumbling gruffly about all the ways he’s going to tie your hands up next time so he can take as much time as he wants at his favorite buffet.

You lose count of how many times you come on his tongue, and his fingers, and his cock before you both finally pass out, tangled up together in bed.

karl urban masterlist

[spideyhexx]

1 am thoughts with kit;

nsfw

gwayne hightower

How much more dishonorable can he get?

Gwayne's lips are already locked to yours, what's the harm in your hand caressing the front of his breeches? Or letting his hips push into your touch? His hand gripping to your waist in an effort to keep you close to him while his thoughts scream to push you away.

He tries to voice it aloud, "I cannot be doing this," his words rushed and sloppy against your lips while you simply moan, tugging on the ties of his trousers.

His words do not hold any weight and he knows it. Gwayne knows you know it. Because he urges your hand down his pants, where you hold the heat of him, heavy in your hand and aching for a touch.

You're too wicked good at it, he thinks. He almost wants to name call you. Ask if you've whored yourself for others, but Gwayne does not want the answer to that. Instead, he revels in the quick strokes you give his cock, his head dropping to your shoulder so he does not look you in the eye.

"Quite worked up," you jest, only to get a strangled moan in response from him. He preens against you, his hips looking for more, so you give it. A small squeeze to his cock and a thumb over his leaking tip and you feel Gwayne's fingers dig tighter into your waist.

"This is just my hand, sir," you whisper to him, and he lets out a scoffed breath, but you speak before he can, "this is just my hand, my cunt wrapped around your cock would much tighter. Wetter. Could fuck you so hard, Gwayne, just ask me."

Your last words border on begging, though you never were one to beg. But Gwayne's kisses and his eagerness despite his inner turmoil were throughly soaking you. His cock heavy, big in your hand only made you more needy to have it stuffed inside of you.

He cannot respond to your words, mouth parted and finally looking at you. Your eyes are pleading with him and your hand fastens its pace. All he can do is moan and lean his head back down.

Cowardly. Too cowardly to give in. You push your pleas aside for now.

And when he cums, he cums hard, making a mess of himself and your hand, biting to your shoulder on instinct to stay quiet. He's too embarrassed, utterly baffled that eh gave into you and how good it felt to give in.

When you take your hand away, his senses snap into him and he fixes up his trousers despite the mess, his eyes glued to your hand, where some of his release lingers. He wants to tell you to stop when you lick it off, eyes locked to his. But Gwayne still cannot speak, until he clears his throat, "thank you. Don't speak on this."

You give him a look, but a smile etches onto your lips, "Never."

[ennn]

Let's appreciate how complex Agatha's relationship with Billy is

GIF credit to @isagrimorie

The genuine emotion brimming from Agatha in this moment is very interesting and I really want to break down all the layers of how Agatha is relating to Billy—because it is truly not as simple as Agatha feeling sentimental or motherly to Billy.

There are a few layers at work here (and I also want to give a shout-out to @trickofthelights for her excellent recap points):

Billy reminds Agatha (enough) of herself

There are two driving forces at the core of Agatha as a character. We know this because her characterisation has been incredibly consistent throughout the show and Schaeffer has talked about them, which is: (a) Agatha is self-serving and (b) Agatha loves powerful witchcraft.

Billy is a powerful witch who did a horrifying thing in order to survive. He's been lying to these wonderful parents. He also just tried murdering three people in a fit of rage, provoked by Agatha no less.

Would Agatha care if he was less powerful? Would Agatha care if he didn't have a dark side? If he hadn't shown to be duplicitous and dangerous and subject to his darker impulses?

If he wasn't alone and without a coven, a possible outcast even among witches because of his unusual origins and power?

I'm pretty sure the answer is no, she would not. She would have dismissed him the same way she did his "Teen" persona. Agatha doesn't care about witches, Agatha cares about powerful witches –because that's who Agatha is and what drives her.

And we also got hints of this with Agatha and Wanda (hello consistent characterisation). In Schaeffer's words:

There is respect and almost affection inherent in [Agatha's interest in enormously powerful witchcraft], as indicated by how she felt about Wanda. She was mean to Wanda, but really she was fascinated by Wanda and admired her and wanted to hang out with her. 

And if this wasn't clear enough, what Agatha tells Billy shortly later about breaking the rules and being a true witch just screams projection (more on that in my next point).

I was delighted that Agatha really did bounce back from the attempted murder – but it's not because she's forgiving. Oh no, I think, Agatha was testing her theory by poking the bear (calculated move, bad at math) and she's glad she was proven right.

I mean, she not happy about the attempted murder but her curiosity wins out. You see her poking at Billy and trying to figure him out in the rest of this scene.

Agatha also hates self-righteous moralising and searches out for the darkness in people – delights in it even – because she knows people and she knows her own darkness.

Billy is different but also not so different from Agatha, as much as Billy or his mom would hate to admit.

Agatha is dealing with her childhood trauma

Yes, Agatha is projecting on Billy, but she makes a choice about it. We hear her telling him what she would have wanted someone to tell her: that they shouldn't be afraid or ashamed of who they are or what they did to survive, that they are part of a community.

Don't you dare feel guilty about your talent. ... That's what kept you alive. That's what makes you special. That's what makes you a witch.

She's trying to be the person she needed when she was a child, because she simply doesn't want someone else – particularly a younger witch – going through what she did.

She doesn't want anyone to go through what her mother put her through. And that's a choice.

Because there are a number of ways a character can deal with trauma: they can lash out and bring others down, wanting others to experience to the pain they went through, or they can realise that what happened to them shouldn't happen to anyone else in their position.

There's something beautifully self-serving but also selfless in that, because this is a way for Agatha to heal from her trauma. She can tell Billy things she may not be able to tell herself.

And it's interesting because as a self-serving villain, Agatha could just be jealous of Billy's power. But in this moment at least, Agatha's empathy and compassion – as buried as they usually are – prevail.

And yes, Agatha was fond of kid Billy

This is what Schaeffer touched on in her interview answer and it makes sense, with the insight that Agatha – like any good actor – does invest a bit of herself in every role she plays.

Agatha does have feelings (as much as they might make her vomit) and I do believe she has a soft spot when it comes to kids, given her experience with her son and her own childhood trauma. And that kids don't have the level of hypocrisy and darkness that adults do.

It makes sense that Agatha would have some level of care about the Scarlet Witch's magical kid Billy. And that is a fondness that has carried onto teenage Billy – who is powerful and a survivor and has a potential for darkness in a way she can relate to.

There are layers and they intersect and it all ties back to how Agatha is incredibly complex and yet consistent as a character.

[leadandblood]

More photos from Aidan Monaghan

[indigohoney08]

It’s me…I’m girls 🎀

[fleecefaint]

stu doing the Ghostface calls (or calling Billy) but in the ‘businessman does work lying in bed like schoolgirl’ pose

"YOU FINGERED THE WRONG GUY.,,, AGAIN!"

lol ok anon

[toobusybeingdelulu]

Max is literally so me because I too would have risked it all just for the chance of getting a glimpse of some gossip between my brother and the boy he won’t shut the fuck up about

And in runaway max it’s even funnier considering that in this scene her thought process is basically: “well they are talking, and maybe it’s about me, but maybe not actually, because they are looking at each other like they have something much more sinister going on”