As an avid reader and a shameful TikTok doomscroller, a lot of my reading recommendations these past two years have come from ‘BookTok’. For anyone unfamiliar with the term, ‘BookTok’ is a community on TikTok (also known as ‘Bookstagram’ on Instagram) focused on all things bookish. Over several years, it has become a vital instrument in the publishing world, not to mention it has its own power to create a chimera of genres, such as (one of my favourite genres) ‘romantasy’; a blend of fantasy and romance. Yet, despite BookTok’s magnificent internet success, on the several occasions I have mentioned to my peers that I read and love the romantasy genre, I am asked this single question: 

“Oh, so you read fairy porn?”

There are several things wrong with this assumption. It is not porn. It is smut. Porn and smut are two entirely different things, and neither should be disparaged. If you cannot find yourself to say the words aloud, let alone read about them, then perhaps this article isn’t for you. Whilst pornography refers to a more direct, graphic depiction of sex and desire - now most commonly performed on a screen - smut is suggestive, it allows for more imagination to flow, and can take form on a page, a canvas, through a camera lens, or in your headphones (or loud speaker, preferably in private, but to each their own). Neither of these prove more intellectual depth than the other; watching porn does not mean you have a lower IQ than someone who reads smut. The same can be said about reading in general. Those who enjoy smut, or romantasy, are as much a reader as those who prefer the odd philosophical memoir. So, on the many occasions I have been asked this ultimate, and downright tiring, question - “You read fairy porn?” - I only ever have one thing to say back: 

“Yeah, and?”

This is, in fact, a petty response. For dramatics sake, I keep the details to myself, but I am inclined to share them with you now. In 2025, I read 53 books, and 51 of these were popular releases of the romantasy genre. I’d say (and this is my own personal rating) the smut content in each of these 51 books was no more than 5%. Now, ‘smut content’ can mean various things. For example, one reader might count a first kiss as smut, while another might find that a tad too tame. Smut doesn’t have to just mean sex. It can include suggestive dialogue between the characters, foreplay, slow burn, and quite a popular one in romantasy, the classic (god-tier) “only one bed” trope. Reading is subjective, and that’s what makes it special. But in my own case, for the smut to work, it has to have a purpose. If done right, it can be just as important as the plot, and should work in tandem with it. Plus, it can be rewarding. Stay with me here. In a slow burn, enemies-to-lovers fantasy epic, we - the reader - want the characters to fight. We want them to loathe each other. Sure, there can be initial attraction, but whether it be cultural differences or personal reasons, these characters must not get together, or fall in love, or boink (or whatever you wish to call it) until they have gone through the necessary development. Over the course of the plot, perhaps the span of several books, they must ignore, register, refuse and finally accept their feelings, perhaps to still be denied (depending how slow burn we’re talking). Smut should be the result, but not the end goal. I can confidently, and unashamedly, say I have cheered aloud when the enemies finally become lovers. Of course, not every romantasy novel merits literary calibre. Some are marvellously written. Some are dreadful. Some of the ones I have read were terribly written, but did I still have fun? Yes. Some have been jaw-droppingly good, I’ve had to get a tattoo to honour it (I have dedicated not one, but two tattoos to the epic fantasy series Throne of Glass by Sarah J. Maas), whilst others have left me as underwhelmed as a flat glass of prosecco. But this is true, and to be expected, of every genre. 

But back to the original question. In my experience, it is rarely asked with genuine curiosity. It’s shorthand for saying, “I don’t take you seriously”. Why is there so much disparagement around reading and enjoying smut? Why has romantasy become undoubtedly tied to this idea of “fairy porn”? In the UK, 2025 alone, the genre gained over £1 billion in revenue, and 84% of its primary audience were female¹. Has romantasy been sexualised simply because it has a primarily female audience? A man reads a book about military strategy, or an astronaut stuck in space, and nobody bats an eye. A woman reads about a vampire prince with emotional intelligence and bulging biceps, and suddenly literature is dead. The irony of this is that many of the books dismissed as “fairy porn” tackle much more important matters. Female desire is no longer overlooked and neglected, but celebrated in an unapologetic light; these “men written by women” focus on applying consent, providing safety and trust, giving as well as receiving, that is what makes them so irresistible. But even bigger themes are at play here. Take Rebecca Yarros’ global phenomena Fourth Wing, for example; many assume the book is memorable simply because it has sassy dragons and a sexy shadow-wielding brute with a six-pack. Yet it also explores the cost of war, and the conflict between truth and history. The protagonist Violet’s development represents the strain of living with a chronic illness, and her enemy-to-lover Xaden opening his province to refugees is a strong parallel to the current state of our world. Take away the romance and the smut, and many of these books would still stand as impressively crafted fantasy novels. Would they be just as successful? Well, love has been at the core of storytelling for eons. Homer’s poems drown in it. Shakespeare built tragedies and comedies around it. Jane Austen perfected it. Yet somehow, when dragons and six foot men with wings are added to the mix, the book is embarrassing, and your reading preferences are belittled.

I recently came across a social experiment that I think properly closes this smut-riddled rant of mine. British author, Ian McEwan, spent one afternoon in a London park, handing out free books. The majority of recipients he encountered were women, who he described as “eager and grateful”, whilst the men he encountered were suspicious. McEwan came to this conclusion - simple and effective - “When women stop reading, the novel will be dead”².

So, if that novel you see on your TikTok feed happens to contain a little smut, or a lot, leave the women be and pick one up for yourself. You never know, you might be enlightened.