Please please please give me some historical fantasy recs, I've been looking for them for over an hour and all the lists I found mainly had alternate universe based on old timey real earth history and regular degular epic fantasy, like some people really listed LOTR 😭
I hope this helps!
1100s
The Adventures of Amina al-Sirafi (S.A. Chakraborty)
1300s
The Bear and the Nightingale (Katherine Arden)
She Who Became the Sun (Shelley Parker-Chan)
1480s
Servant of the Underworld (Aliette de Bodard)
1490s
The Bird King (G. Willow Wilson)
1600s
The Familiar (Leigh Bardugo)
1800s
Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell (Susanna Clark)
His Majesty’s Dragon (Naomi Novik)
1830s
Babel (R.F. Kuang)
1840s
Under the Pendulum Sun (Jeannette Ng)
1870s
The Conductors (Nicole Glover)
1880s
The Gilded Wolves (Roshani Chokshi)
1900s
Ghost Talkers (Mary Robinette Kowal)
1910s
A Master of Djinn (P. Djèlí Clark)
When the Tides Held the Moon (Vanessa Vida Kelley)
zhenya thought it a fitting omen; at least the heavens would weep for him, if he could not weep for himself.
he kept his chin high and his eyes focused on the rain-streaked windows behind the dais as he approached with measured steps he hoped did not betray the knocking of his knees or the hammer of his bruised heart. he would not shame his family by appearing weak before this court.
he knelt gracefully before the broad figure of his betrothed when he reached the dais, and swallowed a gasp when the king's warm palm slid over his untouched neck, a gesture too forward for the light of day, let alone a church crowded with nobility.
shivering, zhenya risked the breach in protocol to glance up at the king, and was met with a sharp, knowing smile.
Does 'forcefully' bethroted Au work? The Nijiku imperial family are looking to marry Zanka with one of Zodyl's heirs to stop a vicious war, and Zodyl sends Jabber because he knows Kamatari country is very conversative and sending a daughter could create a power imbalance. Zanka is secretely relieved because he is in the closet, little does he know how unhinged his fiancé is...
Just an example of forcefully bethroted included.
YES. I had to phone a friend, but this is a forced marriage trope and honestly id love to see it with Janka
zu den tessabelle-prompts: 9, 29, 61, wenn du magst? 👀
Hihi und wie ich mag, die sind alle so gut! 9 ist noch in Arbeit, aber hier schon mal 29 und 61. Vielen Dank für den Ask, das hat sich quasi von allein geschrieben 🥰 Smut und heartache under the cut (in that order)
29- You have a (day)dream about them
Tessa sieht sie an, die Augen halb geschlossen, ein flehender Ausdruck auf ihrem Gesicht. Sie keucht, als Isabelle ihre Hand die Rippen entlang nach unten wandern lässt, die Konturen der Knochen entlang streicht. Sie schiebt ihren Körper nach vorn, Isabelles Hand entgegen und Isabelle genießt, wie unmittelbar Tessa auf die kleinste Berührung reagiert.
Aber es ist nicht Tessa, die hier das Tempo bestimmt. Sie greift ihre Haare fester, zieht den Kopf nach hinten.
„Bitte, Isabelle“, wimmert Tessa und Isabelle belohnt sie mit einem festen Griff erst um die Hüfte, dann am Po. Sie zieht Tessa näher an sich heran, die sich sofort an Isabelles Bauch, ihrem Hüftknochen reibt. Isabelle kann spüren, wie feucht sie ist, wie sehr sie sie will. Zwischen ihren eigenen Beinen zieht es in Reaktion.
„Langsam, Tessa“, sagt sie, und als die Bewegung von Tessas Hüfte wirklich an Schnelligkeit verliert, schiebt sie hinterher „c’est ma bonne fille.“
Tessa keucht und kann nicht verhindern, dass ihre Hüfte bei den Worten nach vorne zuckt. Isabelle schnalzt mit der Zunge, aber sie hat selbst lange genug gewartet, will die Hitze, die Feuchtigkeit zwischen Tessas Beinen spüren und legt endlich die Hand dahin, wo Tessa sie am meisten braucht.
Sie ist so feucht, dass Isabelle der Atem stockt. Ihre Finger gleiten nahezu reibungslos über Tessas innere Schamlippen, und legen sich dann locker auf das Bündel Nerven an ihrem oberen Ende. Tessa zuckt ihren Fingern entgegen und bei ihrem Stöhnen zieht es an Isabelles Brustwarzen.
Sie lässt ihre Finger kreisen, erst langsam, fast ohne Druck, bis Tessa ein weiteres Wimmern, ein gestöhntes „mehr, bitte“ entkommt. Dann lässt sie die Kreise fester werden, beobachtet das hypnotische Stoßen von Tessas Hüfte, sieht zu, wie sie mehr und mehr die Kontrolle verliert.
„Du fühlsch di so guet aa“, keucht Tessa und fuck, die Worte fahren direkt zwischen Isabelles Beine.
Sie legt die Hand an Tessas Brust, rollt den Nippel erst sanft zwischen den Fingern und zwickt dann zu. Tessa stöhnt auf und verliert endgültig die Kontrolle über ihre Hüften, schiebt sich gegen Isabelles Hand, gierig, schamlos, und Isabelle hat noch nie etwas Schöneres gesehen.
„Du machsch es so guet, ich chann nöd, bitte“ brabbelt sie und Isabelle kann sich nicht mehr beherrschen-
Sie schiebt die Hand zwischen ihre eigenen Beine, wacht auf von der Feuchtigkeit an ihren Fingern, von ihrem keuchenden Atem. Ein paar winzige Kreise nur, dann kommt sie mit einem Stöhnen, das Bild von Tessas in den Nacken geworfenem Kopf und halb geöffneten Mund noch immer vor Augen, ihr Stöhnen in den Ohren.
Erst dann spürt sie das Spannbetttuch unter sich, die Decke auf ihrem Körper. Gemeinsam mit der Erkenntnis, dass ihre Augen geschlossen sind, wird ihr klar, dass die Feuchtigkeit an ihren Fingern ihre eigene ist. Im Bett liegt sie alleine. Oh Gott, sie hat gerade wirklich-
Sie kann Tessa nie wieder in die Augen sehen.
61- You lie to them
Tessa leuchtet. Sie ist heute früh ins Kommissariat gekommen, ein breites Lächeln im Gesicht, die Schritte beschwingt, als hätte sie Flügel an den Füßen.
Isabelle hat gespürt, wie Tessas gute Laune auch ihre Mundwinkel hebt, hat ihren Gruß erwidert und Kaffee für sie beide geholt. Und dann gefragt, was Tessa heute Morgen so glücklich macht, unverfänglich, ahnungslos gegenüber des unmittelbar bevorstehenden Erdbebens, das die Topographie ihrer Beziehung so völlig verändern würde.
Tessa hat jemanden kennengelernt.
Der junge Mann vom Landesmuseum, das kurz vor Weihnachten Charlies Fotos aufgekauft hat, hat sie vor einer Weile angerufen. Sie sind ein paar Mal aus gewesen, ein paar Mal im Bett, aber haben gestern den ersten richtigen Abend miteinander verbracht und es ist schön gewesen, sehr schön.
Tessa strahlt, während sie spricht und Isabelle klammert sich an ihrer Kaffeetasse fest, versucht, irgendwie ihre Gesichtszüge zu kontrollieren, sich nichts anmerken zu lassen, während sich ihr Herz enger und enger zusammenzieht und der Boden unter ihren Füßen weg bricht.
Sie hat keinen Anspruch auf Tessa.
Tessa ist ihre Partnerin, aber eben nur im Arbeitskontext. Sie sind nicht zusammen, sind vielleicht gerade so befreundet, wenn Isabelle es großzügig auslegt.
Ihr Kopf dreht sich.
Sie hat keinen Anspruch auf Tessa.
Tessa ist jung, ist so schön, so einfühlsam und lebenslustig und ein so toller Mensch – natürlich sehen andere das auch. Und natürlich wünscht sich auch Tessa jemanden an ihrer Seite, der für sie da ist, mit dem sie ihr Leben teilen kann.
Und was hat Isabelle ihr schon zu bieten? Überstunden, Verschlossenheit, die emotionale Bandbreite eines Goldfischs, wie Antoine einmal gesagt hat. Es ist noch kein Jahr her, da ist sie mit einem Serienmörder im Altstadthotel gelandet, so wenig Ahnung hat sie von Menschen.
Wahrscheinlich ist Tessa mit dem Typen vom Landesmuseum wirklich besser dran.
Aber es tut weh, mehr als Isabelle geahnt hat, Tessa so glücklich zu sehen und zu wissen, dass es absolut nichts mit ihr zu tun hat. Und auch nichts mehr zu tun haben wird.
Sie ringt sich ein Lächeln ab, schluckt.
„Ich freue mich für dich“, sagt sie und ihre Stimme wackelt nur ein winziges bisschen.
Pls for the love of all please make jerejean fuck on Jean’s motorcycle I beg you
… when you’re right, you’re absolutely right.
~
They really shouldn’t be doing this. The balance is precarious, they could be spotted at any moment, and it’s truly reckless, when Jeremy is the face of the USC Trojans and Jean is too damn conspicuous regardless of where he is. Neither of them can be bothered to care at the moment.
It’s late, late enough that there theoretically shouldn’t be any traffic on the winding road this far from the city. Since they’re pulled off to one side, bike tucked partly behind a massive sign, no one should be able to see them even if they were to drive past.
Jeremy is pretty sure he wouldn’t notice unless someone literally drove a car into them. He’s a little distracted. Okay, he’s a lot distracted.
One hand is clinging to the seat of the motorcycle for dear life, the way he usually hangs on to Jean when the bike is in motion. He still hasn’t quite gotten used to riding with him, has a tendency to feel his heart leaping into his throat whenever they take a sharp turn or accelerate too quickly. Their current situation, though, has his heart pounding in a far different manner. Because his other hand is tangled in Jean’s hair, one leg hitched around his hips, trying desperately to hang on as his boyfriend rocks into him with hungry abandon.
He buries a moan against Jean’s leather-clad shoulder, trying to arch up into him without losing his balance. “So good, babe, don’t stop—“ His voice is half muffled, though at this point he doesn’t care if anyone does spot them or overhear them. Judging by the guttural groan that escapes him, Jean doesn’t give a damn, either.
Broad hands clutch at his hips, holding him steady, and Jeremy knows the other won’t let him fall, won’t let him go. Not now, not ever. Jean nuzzles into his neck, kissing and nipping over the skin just above his shirt collar. They hadn’t bothered to get any more clothing out of the way than was strictly necessary. The slight rough scrape of denim against his skin as Jean bucks into him is just another sensation to savor, if a far less important one.
The other’s thrusts begin to pick up speed and force, and Jeremy lets out another needy sound, knowing he won’t last like this. “Je t’adore,” he breathes out, and he feels Jean shudder against him, knows exactly what those words do to him.
Jeremy still comes first, leaving a faint impression of his teeth in the shoulder of the other’s jacket to keep from being too loud. Jean isn’t far behind him, grip bruise-tight as his breathing stutters, entire body going tense, then slack, that gorgeous look of pleasure on his face half-illuminated by the pale moon overhead. “Je t’aime,” he murmurs after he remembers how to breathe again, the words a warm brush against Jeremy’s lips, followed by a slow, lingering kiss.
He smiles into it, even as the approaching rumble of a passing car reminds him of where exactly they are and why they probably shouldn’t have pulled over for a quickie on the side of the road. But it doesn’t matter; all that matters is them.
Prompt: Tommy has an NDE following Bobby's death and Buck breaks down
Thanks again for the ask; I love these angsty prompts so much. While I don't like seeing our boys suffer, I'm not going to lie and say that it's not fun to write. Also. I'm not sure if this counts as breaking down? Close enough.
Words: 1,878 | Rated: G
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"Buck." Maddie's voice is calm, but he hears the underlying tension. "I need you to listen to me, and I need you to remain calm. Can you do that for me?"
Still groggy from the dead sleep he's been woken from, he props himself up on one elbow and knuckles the crust out of his eyes. Glancing at his watch on the nightstand with bleary vision, screen lit up at his movement, he grumbles a bit as he replies, having to clear his throat. "Maddie? It's three in the morning." He barely has a hold on his phone. He's so tired. He's been home maybe four hours, and only asleep for two of them, after one of the most brutal shifts he's had since... Well. Since then. There's not an awake bone in his body or muscle in his brain.
Maddie clears her own throat, voice tight when she continues. "Tommy's been hurt, Buck." Immediately, he's awake and alert, shooting straight up in bed, kicking his legs over the side as he scrambles to find his pants. Fuck, why can't he put his clothes away like a normal human being?
"How bad?" He demands, damn near breaking his screen as he jabs at the speaker button with his thumb. His heart is in his throat; hears his blood pumping in his ears. This can't be happening. Not now. Not so soon after... He swallows back bile.
Maddie doesn't respond fast enough, so Buck shouts, not feeling guilty like he should, "Maddie. How. Bad?" The words are spoken through clenched teeth.
Sniffles from the other end of the line. It takes her way too long to say, "I... It's bad, Buck. The ambulance took him to 1st Pres, and they wheeled him back to surgery immediately, but they're not sure if he's going to make it."
"What the hell happened?" Buck demands as he shoves his arms through a sweatshirt that smells like smoke, but he doesn't care; doesn't have it in him to think of anything except getting to his heart before he can no longer touch it.
There's the sound of fabric rustling as she switches the phone to her other side. "There was a partial building collapse. He'd gone in to try and help the ground crew stabilize it before they completed the rescue, but... there was a tremor, or explosion shockwave, they're not really sure, that destabilized the area they were working in. Tommy pushed one of the other firefighters out of the way, and a concrete slab fell directly on him."
A flashback of the bridge collapse; screaming as he tried to get his people out; all alone and scared.
Tears form in his eyes, and he can't help it when they roll down his cheeks. "How could they not know if an explosion happened? That's a pretty damn loud thing to happen close enough to cause a rippling effect." He shoves down the anger, knowing that Maddie doesn't deserve it. She doesn't deserve any of the explosive emotions he's feeling right now. Furiously he swipes at his eyes as he snatches his keys and wallet from the side table. Really, he shouldn't be driving right now, but he doesn't have the patience to wait for a rideshare. He needed to be with Tommy. Now.
His sister sighs, shaky. "I don't know, Buck. I really don't. His team is at the hospital waiting for news. I called you as soon as I could step away."
He takes a deep, steadying breath to center himself. Turning back to headset mode, he holds the phone to his ear as he slides into his truck and mutters, "Thanks, Maddie. I... I'm sorry for-"
She cuts him off. "Don't worry about it, little brother. I'm here if you need me, okay? I get it. I know how scary it can be. Just, remember to keep me updated, okay?"
He sniffles. "Thanks, Mads. Love you."
"Love you, too, Evan." They let the silence hang for a second before Buck hits the end call button and starts his truck, determined to break land speed records just to get to his... To his pilot.
He reaches the hospital in record LA traffic time, almost squealing into the parking spot. He doesn't care that his back tires are outside the line because it's already been way too long since he's gotten an update and his ears feel like they're stuffed with cotton. The world around him has taken on a dreamlike quality, like he's losing his grip on reality.
Inside the emergency area waiting room, Tommy's coworkers stand huddled together in filthy turnouts, murmuring quietly amongst themselves. Tommy's captain is the only one seated and he's staring off into the distance at nothing, head on his fist like The Thinker. Lucy stands slightly off to the side on her own; he can't tell if she's holding up the wall, or if its holding her as she nibbles worriedly at her thumbnail.
She's the one he knows best so he calls out her name, breathless. "Lucy." When she looks up, her eyes are glassy and without a seconds hesitation, Buck wraps her up in a hug. She doesn't hesitate to hug him back. He holds on until she lets go first, a few of her tears dampening his sweatshirt. "H-have we heard anything?"
She shakes her head, voice wavering, "Nothing yet. He's still in surgery. Oh God, Buck. It was so bad."
He runs a hand through his hair, noticing for the first time that he's shaking. "What...?" The questions hangs in the air.
"Shattered leg. Fractured pelvis, possibly. At least a couple of broken ribs, though we're not entirely sure how that happened. And a collapsed lung from one of the ribs puncturing it. He was hardly breathing when they brought him out, even with the oxygen mask."
Buck's heart stills and the world spins. He reaches out for Lucy and has to use her shoulder as support. Maddie wasn't kidding. How could Tommy come back from this? He was no spring chicken anymore. "Fuck." The word is barely a passing of air through his vocal chords.
"You can say that again." Lucy agrees, gripping Buck's hand on her shoulder and holding it there.
The wait for news is long and painful. Buck wears holes in the shitty office grey carpet; drinks one too many cups of crappy hospital vending machine coffee but has to stop because he's going to throw it up he's so nervous; sits in a shitty plastic waiting chair and bounces his leg so violently some of the patients a few seats down glare at him because he's vibrating the entire row. Lucy takes a nap on his shoulder, clearly exhausted after helping out at the scene and then heading straight there.
After two hours gets a call from Maddie with no updates.
Four hours after that, he FaceTime's with Eddie and Christopher. Their sympathetic looks hurt him too much and he prematurely hangs up.
Another hour later, Hen shows up with Chimney and a blessed cup of high quality coffee that he still barely manages to choke down. They sit with him, Hen pulling him into her side and cuddling him, stroking his hair. Chimney is a quiet, reassuring presence on his other side, occasionally reaching over to squeeze his knee, or give him a reassuring pat. He lets him know that he called off for Buck so he doesn't need to worry about it.
He completely forgot about having to go in today. He was about to unintentionally play hooky.
Finally, Buck doesn't know how many hours later, a harried Doctor emerges from the emergency room doors, calling for the 217. He leaps to his feet, despite not being one of them. Lucy pulls him to her side and wraps an arm around his waist, which he's grateful for.
The Doctor prattles on for much longer than Buck wants; the itch to see his pilot is overwhelming. He doesn't care what happened during the surgery as long as Tommy made it through.
Finally they're allowed back in pairs. Buck is surprised when he's one of the first allowed back, and not a single one of Tommy's team asks him to leave as they shuffle through single file. Not that Buck notices; His Tommy is hooked up to so many machines, and his skin is covered in mottled bruises. His leg is elevated, covered in a thick white cast. The mask over his mouth is the only proof that he's actually breathing, air puffing out and clouding the plastic.
Not wanting to hurt him, but feeling compelled to be touching him, Evan takes one of Tommy's large, calloused hands between his and presses it to his own forward, muttering prayers and wishes as the time on the clock ticks by without end. Visiting hours end but the nurse doesn't manage to get him to leave, conceding to let him stay as long as he doesn't put up a fuss.
He doesn't. He doesn't move from his spot as he waits for the man to open those gorgeous, sky blue eyes; eyes the color of Tommy's favorite place to be. Hours pass. His ass is numb. His eyes feel like lead, and his stomach growls unhappily at the lack of sustenance. Still he doesn't move.
And then, those fingers twitch. Head shooting up, Buck sobs in relief as Tommy blinks his eyes slowly open, brows drawn in a frown as he tries to remember where he is. Tilting his head to the side he says, "Evan?" voice harsh from lack of water and hours of not talking. "Where am I?"
"Hospital." Buck chokes out, not withholding the sob that works up his throat. "You nearly met with Death."
Tommy chuckles weakly before closing his eyes again. "I'm not sure I'm ready to get that particular set of wings quite yet. What are you doing here?"
Bucks hold on that familiar hand tightens. "For you. Why else?"
Tommy cracks an eye open, still frowning, though it's small. "For... Me?"
"Yeah, you idiot. Maddie nearly gave me a heart attack when she told me how badly you were hurt." Tommy hums, but says nothing, clearly confused. "Tommy..." his breath catches. "You know that I'd do anything for you, right? Together or not, friends or just acquaintances, I will always be here for you. By your side. I... I don't know what I'd do without you in my life." Tommy's heart quickens and, though weak, he squeezes Buck's hand, both eyes open once again as he stares at Buck. "Of course, I'd love to be here by your side for the rest of your life as yours, but that's a conversation we can have when you're back on your feet, okay?"
It was Tommy's turn for his eyes to go misty. He snaps them shut but it's too late; Buck's already seen. It makes his heart flutter with hope.
Within minutes, his pilots breaths even out and the heart monitor beeps a happy rhythm as Tommy falls into a deeper slumber. No matter how long it takes, Buck is determined to be here by Tommy's side when he wakes up.
Just like how Tommy was there for him, no matter what.
13 & 7 for the prompts? are those good ones i dunno… luv u
from this prompt list.
this is postmatty coded so i hope that’s okay :)
warning: 18+. smut. lap dance lol. subby matty.
you’re not expecting him to be here when you walk in, still a little out of breath from class, muscles aching in that really good way. you barely make it two steps toward the kitchen, already thinking about that first sip of chardonnay before your shower, when—
“hey, love.” it’s warm. familiar. happy. until you hear a loud clatter and him cursing under his breath. you spin around just in time to see matty stumbling over your bag, the contents spilling onto the floor in front of you.
“shit, shit—sorry, love!” he’s already on his knees, scrambling to grab your stuff and… oh, fuck. his fingers curl around a black leather stiletto, and, perfect, your garter belt dangles from his wrist.
then he just pauses and stares. his lips part slightly, gaze flicking between the incriminating evidence in his hands and your frozen, guilty ass standing there, completely speechless.
“what…?” his voice is so slow and quiet, and, oh god, is that dread on his face?
he shoves everything back into your bag and stands up way too fast, wiping his palms on his cargo pants. you watch the shift happen in real-time: his shoulders going tense, jaw tightening, that little flicker of something possessive in his eyes. you know his brain is going full worst-case scenario, and if you don’t say something right now, he’s about to spiral into some completely unhinged conclusion that is so not the truth.
so you panic. obviously.
words just start spilling out, way too fast, way too loud, an uncontrollable disaster that you can’t stop even if you tried.
you haven’t been going to writing classes. miranda convinced you to pick up pole and lap dancing with her as a winter workout. your best friend didn’t want to go alone, needed a partner. you’ve always been curious but never actually tried it. you didn’t tell him because you weren’t sure what he’d think. you take props because you and mandy like to really, really get into it. how you’re so fucking sorry...
you’re barely breathing between words, your hands are all over, and you’re so deep in your frantic, guilt-ridden monologue that you don’t even notice the exact moment his whole body relaxes. don’t notice the tension bleeding from his shoulders. don’t catch the slow tilt of his head, the way his lips twitch at the corners.
"so this is what you’ve been hiding from me, huh?"
his voice is way too amused for the absolute state you’re in, and that’s when you finally clock the look on his face.
oh, fuck him.
matthew, the smuggest bastard alive, is thrilled, arms crossed over his chest, watching you flail with that stupid, lopsided grin getting wider by the second.
your words finally give out before you do, breath catching somewhere in your chest as you realize you’re about two seconds away from full-blown hyperventilation. so instead of making it worse, you just stop. grab your glass. and down the rest of your wine in one desperate, dignity-saving gulp.
matty’s still watching you. like, really watching you. eyes twinkling with something you can’t quite place but definitely don’t trust. you exhale shakily, set your glass down, and finally force yourself to talk.
“are you mad at me?”
he doesn’t answer right away, just lets the silence linger, enjoying the way you’re practically squirming under the weight of it.
“i’ll only be sad if i don’t get to see it one day.”
your whole body locks up.
you choke on absolutely nothing, your breath stalling in your throat, and it’s humiliating, really, how fast the heat rushes to your face. because, for some idiotic reason, it hadn’t occurred to you until right this second that, yeah... if your chronically horny boyfriend found out you’ve been taking lap dancing classes, there was exactly zero chance he wouldn’t want a front-row seat.
he clocks your reaction immediately, and you bet your ass he’s absolutely thrilled. his smirk stretches wider, eyes flicking down your body in a slow, deliberate sweep that makes your stomach tighten. he shifts his weight and leans in just a fraction.
“actually,” he hums, “how’s your balance?”
turns out it’s non-existent because you have to grip the kitchen counter just to stay upright. your mouth opens. closes. absolutely nothing comes out. no words. no thoughts. just—
fuuuuuuuuuuck.
it’s the only thing rattling around in your head, stuck on a loop like a broken record. fuck. fuck. fuck.
so, naturally, the best course of action? more wine. immediately.
you pour yourself another glass, bring it to your lips, and take a long, desperate sip, praying it’ll somehow settle the absolute mess of nerves currently wreaking havoc inside you. when you finally dare to glance back at matty, he’s still watching you with that look: eyebrow raised, teeth sinking into his bottom lip to physically hold back a grin.
you exhale sharply, shake your head, and attempt to laugh. just a quiet, breathy thing, but it breaks the tension enough that you can at least string together a coherent thought.
“fucking stop it, okay?” you mutter, pressing the cool rim of the glass against your burning cheek for a second. “i didn’t want you to find out. let alone this way.”
“why didn’t you want to tell me?”
you shift your weight, playing with the stem of your wine glass. “dunno. guess i was embarrassed? figured you’d laugh or make fun of me.”
matty gives you a look. “babe. if i ever, in my life, complain about my ridiculously hot girlfriend doing something that’s sexy as fuck, just end me, ‘kay?”
that gets another laugh out of you, the pressure finally loosening in your chest. “so you’re not upset?”
he shakes his head, motions you over with a lazy little c’mere gesture. and you don’t even think. just step forward, let him pull you in, arms snug around your waist, chin resting easy on the top of your head. and that’s all it takes. your whole body unwinds against him, breath slowing, muscles unclenching. he presses a quick kiss to your hair, lingers there for a second, and just when you think all is fine again…
“so, can i see?”
you groan, shoving him back, which only makes his wicked smile stretch wider. he catches your wrist before you can escape, laughing as you down the rest of your wine and flip him off for good measure. he mumbles a few half-hearted apologies, not that he means a single one, and then his hands are on your face, pulling you in.
and the second his lips meet yours, it’s over. whatever half-assed protest you had dissolves between you, his body pressing forward until your back finds the wall, pinning you there, making damn sure you feel everything. and perhaps it’s the mix of the two glasses of wine you downed in record time and the way he’s shoving his tongue down your throat, but suddenly, you’re thinking that maybe having a little fun with him wouldn’t be the worst thing.
so you indulge, let him devour you for another mind-bending kiss before pulling back just enough to give his cheek a playful slap.
“but just s’ you know, i’m not cheap.”
“hmmm. wouldn’t expect anything less from my girl.”
you walk into the living room, biting down a smirk, trying to ignore the way your heart is rattling against your ribs. because what exactly are you about to do? there’s no routine mapped out, no carefully rehearsed steps, and absolutely no floor-to-ceiling metal pole to fall back on. but, well, guess you’ve gotta start somewhere.
and that somewhere begins with you dragging a chair to the center of the room and motioning for matty to sit because a lap dance is obviously the answer. he doesn’t hesitate for a single second, making a show out of pulling out his wallet and flashing it at you before he drops into the seat. which, for the record, is the same damn dining chair he’s absolutely fucked you over more times than you can count.
he’s such a fucking boy, but you love him more than anything, and honestly? there’s almost nothing you wouldn’t do for him.
so you take off your clothes.
your shirt and jeans first. then your socks. now you’re just standing there in your bra and panties, pointedly not looking at him in case the weight of his stare makes you change your mind. instead, you focus. grab your stockings, garter, and heels from your bag, stretching the sheer fabric up your legs, making sure the belt sits snug around your thighs. for class, you’d usually wear something a short skirt or an oversized tee, but given that matty is your only audience tonight, lingerie feels like the only right call.
while you’re busy adjusting straps and fastening clips, you completely miss the way matty’s staring. borderline hypnotized, pupils flickering darker every single time another piece of clothing hits the floor. the way his breath slows, chest rising and falling. the way his jaw clenches when he finally registers what you’re wearing.
because he knows this set. remembers telling you, offhandedly, that it’d look so fucking good on you. hadn’t expected you to actually go out and buy it, but now that you have? now that he’s seeing it on you, in real time, fitting like it was made for you?
yeah. he’s so fucking glad you did.
and then you bend down, ass in the air as you slide into your stilettos, and that’s when he knows he’s fucked. his head drops back, hands dragging down his face, breath catching somewhere between a curse and a groan because, jesus christ, he’s about to lose his goddamn mind. he shifts in his seat and crosses his legs so you can’t see how hard he already is.
meanwhile, you’re completely oblivious, too focused to care where your clothes and bag land as you shove them aside and decide which record to pick. something smooth, something slow. something with a rhythm you can move to. and as soon as the needle drops, the warm crackle fills the room. okay. you whisper it just for yourself, shake out your arms, roll your shoulders back, try to settle the nerves buzzing under your skin.
because ready or not, you’re doing this.
then, finally, you turn toward him, trying your best not to overthink it, just placing one foot in front of the other, letting the music guide you.
matty doesn’t stop looking or smirking for a single moment, his gaze dark as it drags down your body. you step closer, both of you letting out a breathy laugh, because is this actually happening right now? because never in a million years did you think you’d be here, standing in front of him like this. and as for matty? he looks way too eager, fingers already reaching for your hips, pulling himself forward to press slow, teasing kisses to your stomach. you swat his hands away before you can fully melt, pushing him back into the chair, tugging at his hair just enough to make him look at you.
“i’ll talk you through it, okay?”
his breath shudders, eyes flickering shut as he mutters a curse under his breath. but you know he’s enjoying this. you know it the second he uncrosses his legs, the outline in his pants impossible to ignore. your mouth goes dry at the sight, but you have to stay focused.
“all yours, darling.” and you have to bite your lip at the double meaning of it.
before your brain completely short-circuits, you position yourself between his legs, lean forward and give him a peck on the nose, nodding toward the wallet on the floor and letting him know that he better be nice to you. then you turn around, drop down just enough so your ass is barely brushing against his crotch, and oh-so-slowly roll yourself up, making sure your body never loses contact with his. you do it again, this time with intent, pressing down just a little harder over his cock on the way down, rolling your hips with deliberate slowness on the way up, arms stretching high above your head, moving like you’ve done this for him a hundred times before.
somehow, somehow, you manage to stay composed as the minutes pass, keeping your movements fluid, sensual, just for him. yeah, there are still some nerves there, but you’d be lying if you said this wasn’t exhilarating. it’s not perfect—far from it—but you’d never know that by looking at him.
because matty is done for. completely entranced, watching the way you sway, the way your fingers drag slow and teasing over your skin. so hypnotized that he hasn’t said a single word, unless you ask him something. and even then, he mostly just stares, mouth agape because the sheer act of forming words longer than four letters is beyond him right now.
and you can’t help but giggle, shaking your head, because of course it takes a lap dance and you touching yourself for matty healy to finally keep quiet for once.
you move with the music, letting the rhythm guide you instead of overthinking what comes next. just feeling it, letting yourself sink into the moment, into the way his eyes track your every movement. because you totally have this. and him under your control.
at some point, and this was never part of class, you push your tits together, just inches from his face, and oh my god. you actually have to bite your lip to keep from screaming when, without even looking away, he blindly reaches for his wallet and tucks some money between your breasts, fingers lingering on you to savor every single moment. and then he leans in, presses a kiss right against your chest, and your heart is about to explode when he rests his head on that same spot.
you’re sure you feel some of your slick drip down your leg, but there is no way in hell you’re stopping now. not when he’s completely at your mercy. so you slide your fingers into his hair, grip just enough to make him look at you and make him focus.
"i fucking love you, baby."
oh. you’ve heard it a million times before, but something about the way he says it now makes it hit differently. settles somewhere deep in your chest, makes your breath catch, makes your pulse quicken. because it doesn’t just make you feel wanted. it makes you feel his. entirely, unquestionably his.
and god, you want him. want him more.
so you push him back into the chair again, hands firm against his chest, because you’re not done with him yet.
you step back just enough to make him wait, before slowly raising your leg and dragging the sharp tip of your heel oh so lightly along his length. you’ve never been so proud of yourself. his head tips back, eyes rolling up like he’s seeing heaven, body melting into the chair, legs spreading wider, offering himself up completely.
“does this feel good?”
he nods mindlessly, too far gone in pleasure while you take your time, relishing the sight of your boyfriend falling apart right in front of you. you drag your stiletto on him again. and again. until you’re feeling him twitch and he’s actually whining, the sound catching high in his throat, desperate and so, so pretty. and then, just to be mean, you press down just a little, the tiniest bit of pressure, he chokes, cursing loudly, running shaky hands through his curls trying to pull himself back to reality.
but you don’t let him. because you lean forward, wrap your fingers around the cool metal of his chains and tug just enough to make him obey. his dazed eyes snap open and he immediately straightens up, sitting taller, waiting. and that’s when you finally straddle him, slot your body against his, press down and grind against his hips, rolling slow and deep, giving him just enough pressure to completely come undone.
and when he does—when his breath stutters, when his hips jerk helplessly against yours, when you feel the warmth seep through his pants—you just smile. because it’s not the first time he’s come in his pants for you. and it sure as fuck won’t be the last.
