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bad268 · 6 months

Note

hope you’re having a great dayy :)) wondering if you could do one for paul aron in a situation like sleepy back hugs when the other person is busy whipping up breakfast in the kitchen, catching them by surprise smth like that? just fluff cause I rarely see stuff for paul 😢 tysm!!

Morning Surprises (Paul Aron X Reader)

Fandom: RPF/Formula 2/3

Requested: Clearly (thank you for being patient and tbh i was 🤏 this close to changing it to Ralf. idk why but I'm on my Ralf arc rn, I'm gonna start writing for Ralf so send it in <3)

Warnings: shirtless Paul (need I say more?)

Pronouns: You/your

W.C. 1101

Summary: Sleepy hugs in the morning. What's not to like?

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

~~(@/Paul's insta from February 23, 2023)

It was too early to function, in your opinion. Half seven in the morning may seem late to people like your race car driver boyfriend, Paul, but to you, it was too damn early to function. Rolling over in bed to hide in Paul’s side, you notice he’s not there. In fact, he had not been there for a while since his side was completely cold.

You groaned as you got out of the warm blankets and found one of Paul’s many sweatshirts lying around before throwing it on. You walk out of your room and are met with a familiar smell, but you can’t tell exactly what it is in your drowsy state.

You walk into the kitchen and see Paul standing over the stove. He was wearing grey sweatpants and no shirt as he was making what looked like a burnt egg. You held your breath as you crept up behind him before snaking your arms around his waist quickly, causing him to quickly look back at you leaning against his back.

“Are you trying to kill me?” You mumbled as you laid your head on his shoulder, already planning to fall back asleep. “That looks burnt. I don’t think Gigi would approve.”

“I tried, okay?” He chuckled as he dumped the burnt eggs into the trash and began a new omelet. Once it started cooking, he took one hand off the skillet (skrittle) to rest it against your arm. “Are you falling asleep again? Or have you died?”

“I mean my heart is still beating. Only for you of course,” You joked halfheartedly, leaning back on his shoulder to look up at him. “I was planning on going back to sleep. You’re just too comfy, but I don’t want to leave you alone and risk burning the apartment down.”

“You’re so cheezy, I love you,” He teased, leaning over to press a small kiss to your forehead. He turned his attention back to the omelet just in time to flip it are the right time, and it landed back in the pan perfectly.

“You’re so domestic. I love you,” You joked back, pulling away to make you both cups of coffee/tea and set them at the table. “So what’s the plan for today?”

“As far as I know, we have nothing planned,” he replied, dishing up the omelet he made to share with you as he also grabbed some fruits he had cut up earlier before sitting next to you at the table. “We can do whatever you want.”

“That’s a slippery slope, Aron. Don’t give me that much power.”

That night, Paul was pulled into a last minute mandatory call with Toto Wolff and Mercedes about who knows what at this point. You took it upon yourself to make dinner, one of Paul’s favorites. He was pacing around in the living room as you busied yourself in the kitchen.

You were just pulling it out of the oven when he ended the call, and you just set it down when he wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you up. He spun you around in a few circles, causing you both to laugh before he placed you back on your feet as you turned in his arms.

“I assume it was a good call?” You asked, wrapping your arms around his neck as you both made eye contact. His only response was to pull you close and kiss you hard, leaving no room between you. Despite not wanting to pull away, he pulled back with a huge smile on his lips. “Wow, that good, huh?”

“Guess who has a seat in F2 next season!” He exclaimed, tightening his hold on your waist as he bounced back and forth on his heels, unable to stand still.

“Hmm, let me guess. Dino?” You teased, causing his face to fall in mock offense as he froze entirely. You laughed at his expression before going back on your word, “No. Definitely not. I’m pretty sure it has to be Zak!”

He gaped at your exclamation as he rolled his eyes, “No. You’ve got one last guess.”

“Oh, one last guess? I better guess…” you hesitated in mock joking again to get a raise out of him, “Ralf?”

“Oh, you’re just fucking with me!” He shouted, pulling you in for a bone crushing hug again, swinging you around once again. “It’s me! I’m getting a seat!”

“I couldn’t tell!” You laughed as you tightened your hold on his shoulders. He set you down with a sharp glare as you smiled back at him. “I’m kidding. I figured as much. That’s why I made your favorite food.”

It was too early to function, in your opinion, but you would not dare to oversleep on a day like today. Today was Paul’s first day in Formula 2, and you wanted to surprise him with breakfast in bed.

You carefully crawled out of bed, struggling to release Paul’s arms from your torso, and snuck out of the room. You made it to the kitchen where Ralf was making oatmeal or something already.

“How did you get in here?” You whisper shouted as you walked toward Ralf. “I was going to make him breakfast in bed. You ruined my surprise, Ralf!”

“I have a key, did you forget?” Ralf chuckled as he set two bowls in front of you. “You can take it to him. I’ll hide out here and make the protein shakes.”

“Let me check on him first. I’ll bring him out here,” You responded, turning around and heading back into your shared room to find Paul not in the bed. You looked around and saw the light in the bathroom on as well as the sound of the shower turning off. You gave him a couple of seconds before walking in, seeing him with a towel around his waist as he ran his hand threw his blond locks. You walked up behind him as he finished pulling on his boxers and jeans, wrapping your arms around him as he did so. “You’ll never guess who broke into the apartment.”

“Gigi or Ralf? My money’s on Ralf,” he laughed, leaning back into your embrace.

“Ding ding ding, we have a winner!” You replied in mock enthusiasm, jumping up to place a kiss on his cheek, immediately feeling the roughness. You pulled back quickly and made a face at Paut through the mirror, “Dang, you need to shave. I’m going to eat the food Ralf made!”

With that, you left him to finish up in the bathroom as you got started with your day.

~~~~~

#paul aron x reader #paul aron #paul aron imagine #paul x reader #formula 3 x reader #formula 2 x reader #formula 2 imagine #formula 3 imagine #prema racing #mercedes amg petronas #f2 x reader #f3 x reader #f2 imagine #f3 imagine #f2 #f3 #bad268 #ship268 #thing268

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toxophilitis · 2 months

Text

The Widow's Horny Family cont

CHAPTER NINE

By the time Donny had returned home, Peggy was cleaned up and wearing shorts. She allowed her tits to jiggle nakedly, and she was still tingling with pleasure over what Paul had done with her.

Donny looked as if he were a bit tired when he came in, and she suspected he had been with Susy. Since it was a little after noon, she fixed him a sandwich and poured him a glass of milk. By the time he finished lunch, he didn’t seem too tired.

“Where did you go so early?” she asked. “You were gone by the time I got up.”

“I was next door,” he said, smiling at his mother.

“With Susy?”

“Sure, and we fucked in her room again, Mother.”

“Where was Grace?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But she was someplace in the house.”

“Did she tell you two kids to fuck again?”

“Sure,” Donny said. “She’s nice, Mother. You should become friends with her.”

“Oh, I should, should I?” she grinned back at her son. “And why should I do that?”

“Because they’ve got a neat bedroom.”

“Who showed you that?”

“Susy,” he replied. “And Grace was in there, too. She was sitting at that tiny table and brushing her hair. She didn’t have anything on but panties, Mother!”

She watched the excitement glowing in her son’s eyes.

“She has real nice tits and legs, but I didn’t get to see her ass or cunt.”

“Didn’t Grace mind that you looked in at her?”

“Aw, no, Mother. She smiled at me. Hey, I bet I could fuck her, too.”

“I think you probably could, darling.” Peggy smiled erotically at her son. “Would you like fucking her?”

He nodded, his eyes sparkling.

Peggy thought of the conversation she had had with Grace the night before. Images came into her mind, images that caused pleasant pulsations between her thighs.

When her son stood up, she saw immediately the bulge his cock made. “Bring that to me,” she whispered.

Donny moved to stand at his mother’s side, and she slipped his pants down. His cock sprang forth, and she stroked his prick with her hand.

“You’re still wet here,” she said, looking up at him. “Susy must have had a real hot cunt this morning.”

He nodded, arching his cock toward her. Peggy leaned down and pulled her son’s cock into her mouth. “Mmmmm,” she murmured as she sucked. “I love it when your cock is slippery with cunt juices, darling!”

She began to suck furiously on her son’s cock, tasting the cunt juices of the exquisite girl clinging to his prick. She swallowed her son’s cock to his balls, rolling them about her chin. Donny held his mother’s head as he began to fuck her mouth. She clutched at his ass cheeks and moaned with the pleasure of having her son’s cock inside her hot, wet mouth.

Despite the fact that Donny had so recently come in Susy’s cunt, his balls writhed against his mother’s chin as she sucked. Her fingers dug into his tight ass and he leaned down, sliding one hand from her head to the front of her body to cup a tit.

“I like it when you dress this way, Mother,” he said with a thick voice. “You’re beautiful this way.”

“Mmmmm!” she moaned around his cock. Before he came, she shoved his prick from her mouth and twisted his body. With his ass toward her, she made her son bend over. When he did she shoved her face into the hot crack between his ass cheeks. Her tongue licked up and down his asshole, managing to dart between his legs and bounce his balls. But it was his tight asshole that she paid most of her attention to. She reached around his hip and grasped his hard cock as her tongue fluttered into his asshole. She tonguefucked her son in his ass and jacked on his cock at the same time.

As she felt his cock throbbing with impending discharge, she quickly yanked her tongue out of his asshole and hurriedly twisted him about again, closing her hot mouth over the head of her son’s cock just as he squirted thick, sweet come juice.

“Now,” she said with a low laugh, slapping his naked ass playfully, “you can go take a long bath. We’re going to a party this evening.”

“Party?” he asked. “Where, Mother? We never go anywhere.”

“We are this evening,” she said. “Now you do as I say—you’ll like this party, I promise you.”

She watched her son leave the room, holding his pants about his knees. His ass was such a delight to her.

She wiped her fingers over her lips and stood up, the taste of his sweet come juice lingering in her mouth. With a giggle of naughty delight, she took her purse and left the house, wanting to do some shopping before the party.

Peggy bought herself a new garter belt and a pair of nylons, sheer ones. She looked and debated about other things such as panties and bras, but there was no need for those, she decided. The panties she had were perfect—tight, revealing, and sexy enough. Bras were seldom worn anymore, and she loved to have her tits free anyway.

She purchased some items of food then went back home.

Donny was there, fresh and scrubbed nicely. He wore a pair of jeans and a tank top.

She showed him the garter belt and nylons, and right away Donny wanted her to put them on for him. “No, that’s for tonight, darling.”

He looked at his mother. “What kind of party are we going to, anyway?”

She kissed him. “A nice party,” she said. “Don’t worry, you’ll love it, I promise you that. Why don’t you go jack off and fantasize about fucking Grace?”

“I don’t want to fantasize about her—I wanna fuck her!”

Peggy laughed.

“Wouldn’t I do in the meantime?” she teased.

Donny laughed at his mother. “You’d do anytime, and right now is a good time.”

“Race you to the bedroom!” she said, and started off at a fast skip.

Donny was right behind her, laughing as they entered the bedroom. He wrestled his mother to the bed, her skirt flying as she scissored her legs. They grabbed at each other, hands going to cock and cunt. Donny’s cock was throbbing by the time she had his pants off, and she gripped his prick while her son stripped her swiftly. There were a few ripping and tearing sounds, but Peggy didn’t care.

By the time he had her stripped, Peggy was steaming for his cock. Spreading her thighs wide, she pulled her son between them, his cock going directly into her cunt. Lifting her legs into the air, she closed them about his bouncing ass, locking her ankles. Her hands clasped tightly onto the flexing cheeks of her son’s ass while her own writhed and churned, meeting the eager strokes of his cock. Due to his height, Donny’s mouth was level with her straining tits, and, as he plunged his cock into her pussy, his mouth closed about one nipple, sucking hungrily.

Peggy squealed and whimpered, her fingers digging into his bunching ass cheeks as she strained her boiling cunt upwards, taking his cock as deep as she could. Donny sucked hard and vigorously on her tit, his tongue licking. He was gasping hotly from his furious efforts, and Peggy’s breathing came in hot, husky hisses.

Everything that had been happening in the past few days had been a tremendous impact upon Peggy. She was entering a new phase of sexuality.

Her cunt was bubbling with soft, yet intense, orgasms as she banged her crotch up and down, feeling her son’s balls slapping upon the tossing cheeks of her hot, smooth ass. She never, failed to start these orgasms when her son was fucking her, and she never failed to scream with the ecstasy as they grew hotter and more explosive with each succeeding climax. When she began to have multiple orgasms, her son fucked her with vibrant, youthful delight. She knew he could feel the way her cunt sucked and gripped his cock with those reflexive waves. And as usual, she could feel his cock throbbing in a more powerful way, despite the orgasms that sent shudders up and down her naked body.

Peggy screamed loudly, her sounds growing in loudness as her orgasms increased. She rammed her cunt upwards and began to grind in a frantic way against his plunging cock, her orgasms bursting until she could see multicolored lights behind her closed eyelids. Over and over again she screamed.

She clutched at her son desperately, her mind reeling with intense ecstasy. Her naked body shook like a leaf fluttering with a gale force wind. Planting her feet on the bed, she arched her cunt high, lifting her son with her hips. He banged hard into her and went stiff. He lifted his head from her tit and groaned.

Peggy felt her son’s cock throb, then his prick jerked and finally began to gush the thick sweetness of his come juice into her thirsty cunt. Each spurt of his come juice was felt by her, felt splashing against the satiny, hot walls of her pussy. She even felt his come juice as it began to seep past his still-buried cock, running warmly over her trembling ass cheeks.

Slowly, she lowered her ass back to the bed, and Donny’s cock came free. He sprawled on his back, arms and legs wide, his chest heaving up and down. Peggy quickly sat up, leaning over his cock before he knew what she was doing. Peggy ran her tongue about her son’s glistening cock, tasting the juices that smeared his prick. Pulling his prick into her mouth, she sucked, but gently and with love, not with frantic desire.

Her hands caressed his smooth body as she mouthed his cock, touching and feeling of his inner thighs, his now loose balls, the curves of his ass and his still-shaking stomach. Finally she pulled her mouth away and stretched out beside him, one warm thigh resting over his. She placed an arm over his chest and hugged him, nuzzling at his neck as they closed their eyes with exhaustion.

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desert--mouse · 28 days

Text

prompt from @dreamlandcreations: what if paul sees what could have been if he was born a girl and he falls in love with feyd who is supposed to be his husband... how would paul try to get feyd in this life?

The dream left him unsettled. Paul Atreides jolted awake, mind still waxy and pliable after too much time spent in the sand and a belly full of spiced liquor. Was it even a dream? It felt like a vision, cleaving away from whimsy and falling squarely into an alternate timeline. Into a life when he had been born as the Bene Gesserit intended: daughterhood, perfected. He blinked blearily at the window. Past the savannah curtain, dunes crested the horizon. Arrakeen slept. Chani Kynes slept too, her chest rising and falling as she breathed beside him.

Paul returned to the vision, fingering through it like a tapestry with many pockets. In it he was young and foolhardy, bare feet smacking slippery moss in an orchard on Caladan, running from pale hands that snatched for his wrists. A mouthful of briny wind was spat from the sea. The person behind him was the echo of someone he’d seen before in this life. Feyd-Rautha grabbed his waist and spun him around, planting a kiss on the corner of his mouth, clumsily missing the place he’d intended to land. In the dream Paul was fifteen at first. Time swiveled out of focus and he was seventeen, panting hard against Feyd’s chin as they sparred or fought or fucked in the training chamber. And then he was eighteen and dressed in white. The gown was beautiful. It reminded him of his mother. Feyd-Rautha wore black. He was crisply dressed and standing straightbacked at the end of a long aisle dusted in petals.

In that vision, somewhere on a timeline near enough to this one to make itself known, Paul Atreides had married Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. He gulped. His throat went dry and his palms grew sweaty. Yesterday Feyd-Rautha had been detained by Fedaykin patrolling a slot canyon in the north. He was being kept in a cell in the bowels of the citadel on Arrakeen. It wasn’t the first time Paul had questioned his visions, but it was the first time he’d slipped out of bed in the dead of night to prove one of them wrong. He dressed slowly and silently, paying close attention to Chani’s restful sleep. Once his trousers were tightened, he tied his leather crysknife sheath around his waist and left their bedchamber, sneaking through each hall until he came to stand before Feyd-Rautha’s intimate prison. He shouldn’t go in. He knew that already. But the dream kept doubling behind his eyelids, daring him to push through the door and test destiny. Or entertain the idea of a different one manifesting in this lifetime, altering the course of Lisan al-Gaib.

Paul unlocked the chamber and stepped inside. The darkness didn’t allow for much, but he saw the outline of Feyd-Rautha’s lean form seated on the edge of a plain mattress, elbows propped on his thighs, hands dangling in front of him. He stared at Paul with lazy hatred.

“Muad’Dib,” Feyd-Rautha rasped, laughing deep in his throat. The bandages around his torso were dark in the middle. Blood from the wound he’d sustained from the Fedaykin must’ve leaked through. “I’m honored.”

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Paul said.

“Would’ve preferred a warrior’s death.”

“I came alone.”

“I can see that, cousin.”

Paul searched for something more to say. He came up empty, still fixated on the vision. “Have you ever dreamed of me, Harkonnen?”

Feyd-Rautha lifted his face. His smile was as small as it had been with Paul’s crysknife buried in his chest, another vision come to fruition in another life. There was no lamp in the small inlet where Feyd was being held. Light from a glow globe in the hall cast a glimmer on his face and made the line of his nose and his cupid’s bow sharper. In the dream, Paul had found him extraordinary. Standing there, staring at him, Paul understood why.

“I dreamed my own death once,” Feyd-Rautha said. He shrugged and stood. His torso was bare except for the cloth bandages. Black trousers fell low on his waist. “I didn’t know it was you holding the blade until yesterday when I saw the great Lisan al-Gaib for the first time. But here I am, alive.”

“I asked if you’d dreamed of me,” Paul said sternly. “Have you or not?”

“Maybe.” His wolfish smile grew. Feyd stepped forward, approaching with slow steps. He listed his head and his naked brow furrowed. “Why do you ask, Atreides?”

Paul should’ve expected that question. His mind was still fuzzy from the spice liquor, his movements slow. When Feyd aimed a strike at his arm, Paul narrowly deflected. They jostled for a brief moment. Paul tried to sweep out his legs, Feyd dodged. Feyd-Rautha attempted to catch Paul’s jaw with his fist, Paul grabbed his wrist and spun him, pinning Feyd roughly to the stone wall.

Paul jammed his crysknife underneath Feyd’s chin. “Because in another life, you were given to me.” Paul gritted the confession between his clenched teeth. He pressed the edge of Shai Hulud’s fang to Feyd’s milky throat. “You were mine.”

“Is that right?” Feyd laughed, craning away from the crysknife.

“We were married, Feyd,” Paul snapped.

Feyd-Rautha’s expression turned from coy to curious. “You’re a bit feisty for my tastes, Atreides — ”

Paul inhaled forcefully. “And you’re a bit cocky for mine.”

“And yet here we are.” Feyd’s crooked smile curved. He tipped his face toward Paul’s, allowing the crysknife to dent his flesh, then split it, leaking red onto the sacred weapon. Their lips faintly touched. “Here we are.”

#dune #paul atreides #feydpaul #feyd rautha #feyd x paul #paulfeyd #dune fanfiction #feydpaul filet #dune ficlet #feydpaul prompt #this was a fun one #it's not super canon but it's kinda close

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leclsrc · 1 year

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Broooo your last Drabble was so good

If you don’t mind can I request a part 2 🥲

fin de siècle – cl16

genre: drabble, angst

auds here... a part 2 to this as multiple requests came through for it! listened to a lot of mid-air by paul buchanan for this one. hope u enjoy! :)

“Sorry. It’s bad luck for you to see the bride on her wedding day.”

Charles nods once, lips pursed in poorly hidden disappointment, flexing his fingers in the pockets of his slacks. The huge door to your room closes with a click that’s as soft as it is damning, leaving him alone in the hallway of this obsolete Sicilian property you’re getting married in later tonight. Outside, the Ionian sea crashes softly against the cliffs near the gardens, sun unrelenting and humid on the staff setting up outside.

Maybe your friend doesn’t know this, but she should: Charles has always been afflicted with bad luck.

If being stuck with a slow car and slippery roads during vital races isn’t proof enough, Charles has much more to share. A stubbed toe occurs thrice a week, a hit head twice. He’s half-sure he should sue the universe for damages. He constantly runs into black cats, has looked up to find he’s underneath a ladder multiple times, and accidentally opened five umbrellas indoors. Call him superstitious, but to him, that’s quintessential bad luck.

His dress shoes click against the tile. He gazes down at them, remembers he needs to change them out for the ceremony later. He’s busy comparing the black of his shoes to the color of the tile, the contrast between light and dark. He hears slurried, anxious Italian and looks up. He’s under a ladder.

“Che sfortuna,” the staffer says apologetically, fixing the lights. Charles waves him off. He’s used to this.

Often, though, he remembers that being so riddled with bad luck means his moments of fortune are rare. Precious, like the gemstone on your finger. They’re individual, plucked out like shrines, orbs of love and overflowing happiness. Wins, successes, health. He pauses in front of the lobby, where there’s an assortment of hors d’oeuvres tables and signs pointing to the massive library where the main event will be held.

The main event for Charles has always been you. And he’s positive he was at his luckiest when you met.

You’d met at a race in Monza, back when Charles was just getting started in Formula 1. You’d never touched a mic, or conversed with a driver; both of you were getting used to growing up. Your clumsy French matched his clumsy English until you were both barely clumsy, sliding in and out of the two languages with natural skill.

Charles said he loved you just six months later. Distressed and a bit psyched out, it’d taken you a month to ease back into it and admit you loved him, too.

A year marked moving into Monaco, and infiltrating each others’ friend groups. You’d play poker with Max and Pierre, and Charles would play trivia nights with your friends, despite not understanding some of the references. (He confidently answered Lionel Messi when prompted: who discovered Facebook. He refuses to elaborate, to this day.)

There may have been fights and squabbles, but Charles always circled back to loving you. He stares now at the library from afar, still being tidied and rearranged. He debates entering, but figures he’ll surprise himself. He’s never doubted your insane organizational planning skills, and is sure this event is no exception.

He turns to explore the gardens and bumps into Will Buxton, of all people. “Charles?” Sharl, it sounds like, in the guy’s signature English cadence.

Will continues. “What’re you doing here? And roaming around? You should be”—he pushes him toward the rooms area—“resting. Nobody’s allowed around here, let alone you.”

“Needed to talk to her,” Charles explains, his voice low and rough with unuse.

The elder laughs. He’s holding a big pile of organza, no doubt a decoration for somewhere or other. “I’ll bet my spleen you weren’t allowed to. That’s bad luck.”

He throws his hands up in defeat and walks outside, opting to take the long route. This way he’ll have scenery before retreating to his room. It’s quiet, but he suspects much of the bustle is inside each room, where everybody’s getting dressed and preparing.

He’s glad is isn’t overcast, is all—that’s the one thing you emphasized you would hate today.

Sometime in your third year of being together, you and Charles finally talked marriage, together drafting a list of yes-and-no’s. He remembers the night as clearly as he can, like he’s just staring passively at the back of his hand. You’d been fixing the apartment, because according to you, the sofas needed to be rearranged.

Once they were, you claimed it didn’t match the coffee table. So the coffee table was moved to the balcony, the balcony table moved inside. Then a problem with the wall art, then the TV, then the curtains, then the decorations on your dining table. Spent and sweaty, you collapsed on the rearranged couch.

Equally tired from heeding your orders, he’d cranked the window open and flopped down beside you. Monaco was descending into a deep blue, after dusk had turned the room orange, set it on fire. You’d leaned into him. “I love it, but I think we just need a place together.”

That’d birthed the conversation of marriage. Neither of you were opposed to it. On a supermarket receipt and old prescription notice, you’d both jotted down what you wanted out of your wedding. He’d put: need a nice, tiered cake, with flowers on it. You’d put: bouquet of just lilies, baby’s breath, and two sprigs of basil, so it’d smell good when you pressed your nose to it.

He’d put: no bachelor/ette parties. You laughed out loud and nodded. It’d be a trivia night for all your friends, you decided together. You’d put, then: ceremony in a library. “The one thing I’ve always wanted,” you swooned.

He’d give it to you, he told himself then. He would. One of your big no-no’s was a rainy wedding day, which meant your previous dream location (somewhere in coastal England) was immediately out. You mulled over Greece, maybe even within Monaco, or France.

“We have time to decide,” he said. “Haven’t even proposed.”

“I expect the precious gemstone on my finger next year,” you said. “And no big proposals, please.”

“Oh, God. Must cancel the London Orchestra, Queen’s guards, and Coldplay’s special appearance as early as now, then?” You rolled your eyes, laughing before you kissed him. The list-making and subsequent reviewing had taken so long, your kiss was illuminated only by the full moon.

“Any other misgivings?” He’d chuckled, a kiss pressed to your jaw.

“We need to stay all night,” you croaked. “Leaving early is bad luck.”

Charles is by no means religious, nor is he superstitious, but he well and truly thinks luck and God might have been on his side when it came to being yours.

He hasn’t seen you yet tonight, stationed beside Carlos and narrowing his eyes to predict when the big doors will open and let you through. Right then, the violin beats to life and everyone around him turns, faces blotched with tears and frozen with awe. Like always, you’re beautiful. Charles doesn’t need to see you in a veil and dress to realize this.

Your hair is pinned into a loose bun, your bouquet of lilies and basil green and lush. The big windows tint you a rosy orange in the Ionian sunset. You walk gracefully, slowly, swaying to the violin music. Your dress, like many of the ones you’d dreamed of then, is satin and simple. A high neckline, ending above your heels that click on the tile. You’re a brilliant force of nature, he thinks.

You gaze up, smiling. Forget Sicily. You’re the prettiest here.

Charles looks down, to remember if he’s changed his shoes, to remember the contrast of the tile. He needs to channel his emotions somewhere. Maybe if he looks down, gravity will just let his tears of overwhelm fall silently. His gaze is rooted to the floor, to occupy himself so he doesn’t feel his heart rip out of his chest when you pass him by.

He takes a seat, with Carlos, watching you laugh and tear up yourself, your gaze stuck on your groom. The officiant announces the exchange of vows, and Charles can’t help but let his mind wander all over again, plant itself into memories long gone—like the day you’d mocked up your supposed wedding vows.

You had let him read yours, which willed him into a steadfast spot of never letting you read his, ever. He’d folded up the yellow pad paper he’d written it on and stashed it somewhere secret. It was the first thing he sought out when he sold the apartment after he cheated on you.

Later, at the reception, he loses his appetite but maintains a generally cheerful demeanor despite himself.

The small talk is stuffy, and Carlos is off dancing with Isa, so he’s alone. Halfway through a glass of Scotch, he turns and is met by your hand almost tapping his shoulder.

“Oh, my G—sorry!” He says profusely, downing the rest of it.

“All good,” you say with a laugh. “Lissie told me you wanted to talk earlier?”

“Oh, that,” he quips with faux nonchalance. Suddenly his whole plan, to give you a letter that had some of his old vows written into it, seems like a stupid, immature idea. “Well, I… was just going to wish you a great day. Considering everything, I’m just glad to be invited.”

“Don’t say that,” you insist softly. “Everything’s okay between us.”

“Yeah,” he says. It’s more of an attempt to convince himself than you. “Yeah.”

“Well, have fun. I hear the dessert bar is amazing.”

He watches you walk away again, and takes a tiramisu from the dessert bar.

Three bites later, retrieves his jacket from the coat check room, and ducks quietly out of the party when the third slow song of the night just starts to play, illuminated only by the full moon.

—

Being here To be able to I’ve been As nervous as

If I told you and everyone here that I wasn’t poetic, I’d be lying. (People will laugh at this, honey.) Because although I’m not a wordsmith, in both my native tongues let alone my English, I seem to always find the best things to say about you and about our love. A dream that’s rivaled those of racing is my dream of growing old with you, and this is finally it. It’s finally happening. I wouldn’t trade anything for it.

Vows are about promises. I only have one. I promise to love you forever. Whatever it takes to keep it, I will. If it means letting you sleep in, I’m up by 5. If it means losing a race, consider the car unfinished. (Will Mattia like this joke?) If it means paving a walkway or building a library, I have the tools I need. It might get difficult, but in these moments of hardship, I promise everyday to make it easy for the both of us.

(I think these vows are just me raving about you, bug…)

Call it luck, call it fate. I’ll call it my moves. (Yet another great joke babe!) How could I ever have gotten a woman so beautiful, so unlike any other? The idea that we are so small compared to the universe makes no sense to me, because the fact that you and I are both here, existing, now, is proof enough that the cosmos granted my wishes.

I love you—

Even in my moments of bad luck,

Even when you’re giving me the cold shoulder,

Even when we’re 3,000 miles apart, and

Even if one day, you might no longer be mine.

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #f1 x reader

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sethsclearwater · 1 year

Text

M A S T E R L I S T

imagines

dynamics ✽

newborn

overstimulated ✽

false alarm

broken

subby ✽

competitive

underestimate

not that fragile ✽

can’t wait ✽

2 am

anxiety ✽

first fight (part 2 ✽)

long day

what were you thinking? ✽

labor

nesting

baby fever

atta girl ✽

slippery

blurbs

the one where you have baby fever

the one where they're too hot

the one where you fall into the subspace at emily's

the one where you three have an onlyfans account ✽

the one where you're overstimulated and they're in their ruts ✽

the one where you find a kitten

the one where both boys are in their rut ✽

the one where they get high

the one where you're affectionate before bed

the one where you're sore the morning after

the one where you have a lazy morning

the one where you're a bad driver

the one where paul says 'i love you'

the one where you nap in their clothes

the one where your heart rate speeds up around them

the one where you're protective of your baby

the one where there's cockwarming ✽

the one where you fall into the subspace and miss seth ✽

the one where you’re intimate after having your first baby ✽

the one where you’re in the subspace and they have company ✽

the one where they catch you using a vibrator ✽

the one where you’re on top pt. 2 ✽

the one where you have a migraine

the one where it’s more of the early days

the one where it’s yours and paul’s first time ✽

the one where you wake up in the subspace

the one where you get into a minor car accident

the one where you’re having a hard time getting pregnant

the one where they surprise you on your birthday

the one where you’re pregnant and break a rib

the one where you’re pregnant by accident (pt. 2)

the one where you have your second baby with them

the one where you give them a fashion show

the one where you three are adjusting to a newborn

the one where you have bad cravings

the one where the three of you move in together (pt. 2)

the one where it’s the early days of the poly relationship

the one where all of you are up with the baby

the one where you need your inhaler

the one where they’re both on patrol

the one where you help out after the eclipse battle

the one where there’s a lot of aftercare ✽

the one where you see the boys in their wolf form

the one where you’re pregnant and desperate ✽

the one where you’re sleepy at emily’s

the one where you’re drunk

the one where you have morning sickness

the one where you’re pregnant and overstimulated

the one where you’re on your period

the one where you’re at emily’s

the one where they propose

the one where it all began

the one where you have a newborn

the one where you’re pregnant

the one where there’s casual dominance

thoughts

what i think arguments are like

what i think arguments would be about

notes: ✽ = smut

#seth clearwater #paul lahote #seth x reader x paul #seth clearwater imagine #paul lahote imagine #seth clearwater blurb #paul lahote blurb #twilight #the twilight saga #twilight imagine #twilight blurb

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bambi-kinos · 26 days

Note

I wonder what you think of if think they ever saw themselves together as (secret) gay couple, like marrige,boyfriends or was it more like "we are friends and song writing partners" that happend to do more "drunk things together" and that's what messed it up in the end, or do you think it was a pulling-pushing type of relationship? like did they break it up more than one time, all the time and the final drop was India?

Sorry for bad English!

John and Paul have a few things going for them and against them with regards to their perception of their relationship:

Pretty much any sexual activity between men was permitted without it being "gay" or "queer" or anything like that so long as the men involved didn't admit that they were gay. I guess kissing and penetration is what makes sex acts gay or queer to the early 20th century guy who was jerking off with his mate in the back of a car or whatever. Since this was just "getting off" and it was kept far away from their wives and families, it didn't count as gay. This means John and Paul grew up at a time where it wasn't considered particularly bad to get off with your mate, do frotting and handjobs/blowjobs, whatever. It definitely wasn't something that you talked about openly (that's indecent) but it didn't make you a gay guy either. Even now in TYOOL 2024 men are weird about this and insist that getting aroused and climaxing with other men is not sexual at all and definitely not gay. That means that John and Paul had a large, large gamut to run without ever having to call themselves gay. My opinion is that they did not call themselves gay or queer, or acknowledge that side of themselves for the beginning stages of their friendship. I think Paul has always had some inkling or self knowledge but honestly, from 15-18 years old that doesn't mean much lmao. I don't think John figured himself out for a longer period of time because he already had so much stress heaped on his plate, there was no need for him to add concerns about his sexuality onto them. If John and Paul were doing anything "extra" in addition to the group wanks at this early stage then they just tossed it all under the "boys will be boys" column. And if everything stayed that way then nothing else would have happened.

Then they go to Hamburg. It's a brand new continent and a brand new world. This is where they see crazy ass sex stuff and more importantly, they encounter men and women who don't wrap delusions around their sexual activity. This is where they met gay men, lesbians, transgender people, cross dressers, etc. We can't know what it was really like but the point is that Hamburg was a huge turning point for them and it turned John and Paul from simple provincials into much more sophisticated sex havers. John got off with crossdressers and kissed other men on the mouth; Paul found a boytoy and comforted himself with his presence when John-and-Stu became too difficult to bear. I doubt they considered themselves gay at this stage but their minds were broadened in a big way. They were exposed to different lifestyles and mindsets. And they had to learn fast and get used to it because their livelihoods depended on that.

After this, things become more slippery slidey. They could very well have gone on this way forever, doing gay sex stuff and refusing to call themselves gay. Except then Paris happened and neither of them forgot it. It never left their heads. Something happened there that we don't know about that, memories that they cherish. Who did John give a pearl necklace to considering there's no mention of him and Paul hooking up with ladies on this trip? Why did John hold on to the memory of couples tenderly kissing each other for so long? Why did John and Paul come back exploding with life and energy? It's almost as if something happened where they convinced each other that they were a sure thing, that they could depend on the other one no matter what. That there was something else for them that wasn't just being mates or being part of a band. And the rest, as they say, is history.

They didn't understand what they were to each other for a long time but that's because they were teenagers. It was a genuine friendship that they built in the beginning which honestly? I'm really glad that they had that. I also think that it's exactly this which lead to their relationship lasting for so long.

Like, John's problem was that he jumped into relationships and intimacy too quickly and it inevitably blew up in his face somehow. Paul's problem is that he's too cautious and he holds everyone at arms length. But by having a concrete friendship to build off of that they grew over time and through ups and downs, they ended up becoming each other's steady. It gave them stability and a deeper relationship that they never really managed with other people. That means that, for a long time, John and Paul would call themselves "mates" and it would be completely accurate. It wasn't until much later that the sex stuff started and then when it did, they still had the strength of that initial friendship to rely on.

When it comes to the "push/pull" dynamic you mentioned, they did have their ups and downs where they got used to "crisis moments" to pull them back together after being emotionally distant from each other (and I do have thoughts about that). But I don't think they went through a series of break ups and "we're back together" moments. I think that their relationship simply strained and strained and strained until it finally snapped under the weight of everything they couldn't bring themselves to say. I don't think they suffered any serious moments of breaking up once they put 1960 Hamburg behind them.

There are lots of people who think that John and Paul never figured out their mutual attraction due to their upbringing and while this is a possibility I do not think this is true at all. John Lennon and Paul McCartney are the most revolutionary minds of the 20th century, I don't believe for a second that they were just sitting there and didn't understand what was happening to them. I absolutely think that they figured out that they were queer and in love with each other. Maybe it was in 1961, maybe it was in 1967, but they did eventually figure it out.

The problem for John and Paul is that this revelation did not make their lives better and freer. It arguably made their lives much worse. I don't know if they could even consider the possibility of being together in some capacity because of the sheer virulence against homosexuality in the 1960s and that they were both raised to think that it was moral depravity. We can see that this provided roadblocks for both of them: John and Paul had to get wasted in Key West to simply say the words "I love you."

On the third hand, they did have examples of homosexual men like Victor Spinetti, who was apparently in a committed relationship with another man, to look at. Once they got to know Brian, they were introduced to the world of gay men, not all of whom were married to women. This once again broadened their minds and they had the revelation that you could just go off with another man and be his steady.

John and Paul would probably have liked it very much if they could be a couple together with their version of fidelity in the works. I doubt they would have made a legal commitment to each other in the form of marriage (their business relationship was certainly much closer than trivial marriage documents) but they would have liked being romantic partners. The roadblocks to this were 1) John's son Julian 2) their status as public figures 3) their upbringing telling them that this was wrong.

I have no doubt that John revealed something to Paul in India, more than his 🎤. As one of those revolutionary minds of the 20th century, John may have offered something similar to the above paragraph to Paul, hoping that if he presented it all of a piece then Paul would have to answer sincerely, from the heart. After all, John could be sure that Paul loved him, right?

Well. We know what happened after that.

#mclennon #john lennon #paul mccartney #took me years to answer this i'm sorry #don't worry about your english #i understood everything #talktalktalk

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silverfoxstole · 19 days

Text

For Bush Wednesday this week I would like to show you my latest Mr Bush Bear, made for Paul McGann. I thought that as he was coming to Portsmouth it would be an appropriate gift. 🙂

I've talked about the fur and the trouble it gave me with shedding in another post. It feels lovely but it’s also very slippery when it comes to sewing all the bits together, especially the head, which has a tendency to move and is the reason he’s looking sideways. This is actually his second head as I wasn't happy with the first one, and the bin did briefly have the look of the basket under the guillotine; at one point there were a few discarded limbs in there too, when I tried some different fur and didn’t like it! He's also the first Bush I've made with blue eyes, not finding any in the right colour until after I’d made the original.

Each of the other bears I made required extra fabric to be ordered but I already had all I needed for this one: the coat is made from a sample I got of some lovely navy fabric quite a while ago, the shirt and waistcoat of cotton and the hat felt. I also used felt for the white trim on the coat which was much easier than strips of binding and worked very well, and this time for the buttons and lace on the hat I went for embroidery rather than top stitch thread, using the same in dark brown for the queue instead of the wool I used before. I was very happy with the way he turned out, and his new owner really liked him too!

Of course, being Bush I had to give him a raised eyebrow:

All my bears are unique but this one has an additional feature: his left leg is detachable. For authenticity, you understand.

It was me pointing that out to Paul that got us onto talking briefly about Hornblower, which I've already mentioned here.

As he was the only one with no accessories I gave him a telescope as a late addition on Friday but didn’t think to take any pictures of him with it before he weighed anchor and went sailing off to his new berth: the room in which Paul keeps all the gifts he’s been given by fans and where I was told he and his companion the Eighth Doctor will be given pride of place.

#sfs’s adventures in sewing #hornblower #hornblower bears #mr bush bear #william bush #william bush wednesday #paul mcgann #please forgive me going on about all this #but i was so pleased with the bears #and so chuffed with the reaction they got #this is the last post about them #promise

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catholic-character-tournament · 1 year

Text

Round 1 - Side B

Propaganda below ⬇️

Johnathan

Catholicism doesn’t really exist in the game but it also kind of does. Basically, Johnathan didn’t know that God existed until one day all the angels started coming down from heaven to have a war with the demons from hell. And then Johnathan made a pledge to go serve god and heaven and kill all humans living on earth because they were like “unfit” or “unclean” or something. So then Johnathan’s friend Walter goes to hang out with satan and then they become enemies :( But he’s basically catholic even if he doesn’t directly call himself that so i’m gonna say yes.

Johnathan literally fuses himself with god to become merkabach. He is unhinged. At the start of the game i thought he was cool because he didn’t want me to kill my best friend like WALTER did. And unlike WALTER, johnathan didn’t fuck up the boss fight with the minotaur. But then johnathan became really really bourgeoise or bougie idk whatever idk how to spell it. And then johnathan was like “FUCK POOR PEOPLE” and i was like no girl nooooo. But johnathan wanted to fuse himself with god and wipe all humans off the face of the earth because heaven thought they were impure. So he was trying to invoke the angels of destruction so badly and i was like johnathan you can’t do that son, and so i had to beat his ass. And then by extension i had to also beat god’s ass. And then i don’t really remember what happens but johnathan was essentially the most catholic guy in existence considering i don’t know anybody else who was chill enough with god to do steven universe fusion with him.

ok so like in smt theres alignments . chaos neutral and law. jonathan is the local lawboy and this means hes like the one who rather follow the rules already established and reject radical changes. but anyways hes also shown to be some sort of follower of god in this world and also of the like. local religion or whatever in mikado (where everyone is from) and hes very devoted to the cause and to keep things peaceful as they are now instead of trying to change shit up like walter (the chaosboy)

if he wants to commit genocide who am i to say no

has one fight with friend and decides to become an angel about it and nuke tokyo off the map

Fuses with literal biblical angels to become another angel that then wants to genocide anyone deemed ungodly/unclean by the biblical higher powers (which includes the entire population of Tokyo. And people who read manga).

Dude he is absolutely insane. He's my poor little meow meow. The party got high and he rolled around on the floor and meowed because he thought he was a cat. He is also so insanely gay. Like stupidly queer coded . that just makes the catholic guilt hit harder tbh

Gay boy who dies in every timeline

Paul

he's like if renfield from dracula was cool youth pastor.

He's also a priest, who essentially becomes a vampire due to an "angel" and tries to convert the entire town. He also runs an Alcoholics Anonymous group. I love him

Listen you've probably gotten this guy idk how many times but JUST IN CASE, I submitted him. He's a priest who fell in love and had a lesbian daughter. He becomes a vampire after his money-laundering fundie simp sent him to the Holy Land. He's so torn up over his lover having dementia and God allowing so much overwhelming death that he decides he's going to try to Cure Death Forever but oh boy is it a slippery slope and the man is surrounded by enablers.

so i binged watch the chosen (it's a drama series but it's the bible) and I needed to balance or else Id be insane so I watched midnight mass. It was good. Fuck this rat -- op

#shin megami tensei #jonathan smt #smt #father paul hill #midnight mass #cct polls #tumblr tournament #tumblr bracket #tumblr polls

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rainderthesomeone · 23 days

Text

Meet the BLU team!

I figured I should make this so everything is a little more easier to understand when it comes to Blu such as personality and behavior, also its some lore insight.

Blu Soldier the Leader of Blu team, Strong, Durable, and actually has a brain unlike his red counterpart, when not on the battlefield he regularly disappears here and there, no one knows where he go's, he's quite dopy when it comes to social interactions, but he his very very loyal, a trait that is seen with red soldier.

Blu Demo is the complete opposite of Red Demo, he doesn't drink, he doesn't have wisdom or honor, and he doesn't play with swords, he carries sticks of dynamite and takes his role in Blu very seriously, he's a rule fallower and doesn't take kindly to his team relaxing or mucking about, don't piss him off, due to this aggressive personality he has become second in command by default.

Blu Medic, is also the opposite of his Red counterpart, While Red Medic is frolicking in the battlefield as blood is spilt or experimenting on his team with animal organs and playing god, Blu Medic is quite, calculated, and flexible, he can be seen in the background using actual medicine on his team, he is quite aware of his surroundings and is by far the smartest of his team, and has a moral compass that's somehow intact, he is quite anti social and slightly temperamental when it comes to carelessness, he has fallowed the Hippocratic oath to the finest detail, though due to this passive nature he cannot defend himself and is a easy target without his team, the closet to a friend he has is Blu Engineer and Blu Soldier, though he sees there friendship as buissnes oriented

Blu Sniper, A great hunter and Surprise ambusher, but despite that he is very unprofessional when it comes to his job, he loves the thrill of the hunt, and has quick reflexes but in personality...he is quite brain dead, he cant read a map, awful with directions, can get winey when he doesn't want to do something, clumsy, and has little in common with his Red counterpart, he also has the need to upstage Red Sniper in every way.

Blu Spy, A slippery, Sneaky, little snitch, While Red spy is collected and straight faced, Blu Spy takes great pleasure in mockery and humiliating his targets, he is by definition a Sadist, and a narcissist, more narcissistic than Red Spy, everyone in his team hates him and he hates them, in his free time he stalks his team and gathers dirt on them and anything that he can use against them to blackmail them, so he can control them in order to gain more power and influence within the team, he is a backstabber and doesn't play fair, but when caught red handed he flees like a coward or a child in trouble.

Blu Pyro, he is a friendly fella, and he is quite fluent in English and speaks quite well, the most innocent one.

Blu Scout, is the only one in Blu similar to his counterpart, he just dosent have a crush on Miss Pauling or an interest in women, loudmouthed, and respectless, dosent know what a comic book is or who Tom Jones is (how dare he)

Blu Engie, doesn't try, lazy, hermit, always looks defeated, isolates himself from his team, jumpy, only talks to Blu medic.

Blu Heavy, Simple minded, brute, always go's into hand to hand combat if given the option.

I reworked some of there personality traits and looks to make them more diverse instead of having them always being aggressive and spiteful which was there original personality traits, since originally the story was going to have a slightly more darker undertone when it came to the Blu's.

they are all clones of the Red Team, Blutarch wanted to defeat his brother so why not clone a team of mercs that are perfect and capable as Red team, to make the playing field more fair, (that and the Administrator had something to do with this)

if you have any questions about them let me know, I wont be able to give a clear an answer to some things since that would spoil the story a little bit :)

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 spy #tf2 engineer #tf2 sniper #tf2 scout #tf2 demoman #tf2 soldier #tf2 medic #tf2 heavy #tf2 pyro #tf2 blu team #tf2 comics #tf2 gmod

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punk-in-docs · 2 years

Note

Prince Paul spreading his wife over a dining table so he can eat her relentlessly 🤤🤤🤤

🥀The Matter of a Good Taste 🥀

AN: relentlessly you say? *Cracks knuckles*

I’ve written so much Prince Paul pussy eating I’m starting to think it’s my kink that I always seem to get this man on his knees to give some amazingly fantastic head when irl he probably never even ate a pussy once but you know what? Fuck it. Also this came out far sweeter than I had intended? Idk how. TW: none really apart from some serious pent up need oral.

Nights at the palace slip in all soft. Slippery and holding the gentle density of clouds.

It’s a rather stark change to the brutality of court in the day. All the velvet draped daggers and sugar faked smiles. The grins that then vanish in passing.

Snide acidic comments designed to poke like sharp gleaming needles. Designed to find the space between the ribs. Whispers wriggle like hissing snakes at your bodiced silk back.

Mornings are a parting wrench. You don your costume to please them all. Tie the stays tight. Lip rouge the colour of split blood. Heartthrob red.

You far prefer the nights. Time that narrows down - tapers, whittled - right the way down to you and Paul. When the candles burn their tongues of gold and spin the room to shadow and gems. Sparkling like the Crown Jewels.

You sit down to dine together and pour way too much wine. A heavy dinner. Always heavy. The same pallid creamy white soup. Roast meat - bloody and smothered sticky with dark wine sauce. Potatoes and onions with thyme and sage. A meal that sits heavy and clunking in your belly.

You chat about your days. You tell him about the tea party for the girls orphanage, and the earned shreds of gossip whispered out the side of Milena’s mouth. He tells you about the military coup, the uprisings. The jagged feeling towards the crown.

When the staff fade away with their chattering’s and cease heavy footfalls on the parquet. That’s your favourite. When peace descends. Thick like a smothering eiderdown.

The exquisite squeeze when your maid undoes your stays. When you can finally breathe out. The hot steam of a bath clearing your sinuses. Clean spice of tuberose soap and being wrapped in a cool cloaking chemise for bed. The smooth cotton sheets crisp and cold that you slide into, as you wait on Paul to join you.

You’d never tell him your habit. That each night as you lay in your bed, you listen out for his footfalls. You smile when you hear them coming closer outside the doors.

And you wait an awful long wait, tonight.

He doesn’t appear to be coming.

The carriage clock on the huge golden mantel strikes twelve. The chimes mock you with their tinny echoing cry. He should be in here, arms stuck wrapped around your back. Lips in your neck. Maybe a rough tumbling fuck if the day has been hellish.

Another half hour. And before the next can come, you throw the covers off and go in search of your absent husband.

Padding barefoot over the numerous antique rugs. Through the gilded doors. You find him in the dining room. Firelight shines wetly off the polished surface of the table. Ripping and curling orange. He’s staring. Transfixed by it.

He’s sat there in his shirt, undone waistcoat, and breeches. Ruffled neck wide open. Whisky eyes cast and doused in flame. Dormant like one of the outer crust of the stuffed animals displayed on these walls. The brushed hyde of glassy eyed stags or the great still plumage of some exotic bird eternally perched.

You lean against the huge door. Hips pressed to the golden handle. Stay to your silence. Watching him for a moment.

When day was done it was a release for you. An undressing. Unwind. For Paul it seemed less so.

Sometimes the tranquility that undid you, paved the way for a whole crush of thoughts in his head. Sisyphus and his boulder up that hill. The press of a frown pinching brows.

Heavy was the head that cannot yet seize the crown.

No one else gets this view of him. You made your mind up to adore it. He was all cherubim beauty. So striking. You thought the very same thing the first time you laid eyes on him. Definitely not a weak chin.

The pillow set of pink lips made to mouth at. Made to bite. The melty eyes that swing between venom and boyish levelled at you. The lush line of his jaw and the way his hair is set with a natural curl. The flick of doe lashes that really should be flecked with dew, they’re so girlish-pretty.

“Something vexes you?” You ask. Crossing your arms and gently intruding into the room. Hair loose down your back tickling your waist.

He looks over at you like he’s startled. Eyes all big and flame captured. Lips part softly. Like he’s a bunny been caught out by the hawk.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” He asks. His tone ripe with accusation. Throat bobs where he swallows.

You lay your vicious tongue to rest tonight. There’s no need for your dagger sharp words.

“You don’t escape my notice that easily.” You level shrewdly.

Not like how you escape hers.

The woman who is surely preying on his head right now. The glorious Empress, whose long casting shadow governs and hovers his every tiny step.

He doesn’t really respond. In the way he does when he can’t lay his thoughts to bed. Where his head is too heavy and buzzing full to lay on the pillow beside yours. Too itinerant.

You walk to his side. Hesitate before touching him. In case he snaps and insists he needs his space.

He tips his eyes across your body. Sees you whole where you’re stood.

The fire brushed strokes of fuzzy apricot across your chemise. He can see the shape of your naked body barely concealed underneath. Soap skimmed skin. Pillow crease caught in your cheek. Warm dewy from rest.

“Rough day.” He finally answers.

You nod. Just nod.

“Shall I keep to my rooms tonight, Tsarevich?” You enquire. Face a cold bed. Space gaping. Unfilled on the pillow opposite.

You say it without teasing. Without jest. You don’t purr flirt at him. You ask genuinely.

“Don’t.” He answers weakly. Throat bobs again.

You tip your head to the side.

Decide finally to slide towards him and run your fingers through his hair. Hip against the table. Stroking fingers through his pretty curls. The fire shot yellow gold some of the tresses. Chestnut too.

You want to tell him to lay it to rest. Whatever it is. Be done with it now. That the beast plaguing him will seem less daunting - will have its sharp teeth blunted by the dawn after a full night of rest.

He leans to you. Hands come for your hips and tugs you in.

Rests his head against your belly. Rubs his forehead into you there. Mashes his face to your soft body. Rolls to you the way the tide rushes to meet the shore. Breathes perfume and soap. You.

You in pure gunpowder shot form. Dynamite strong. Closes his eyes. Hugs you like he’s been lost at sea for months. Drugged on nearness.

Intoxicated on the fact you’re impossible and bolshy. Hardest, sharpest woman he’s ever met; yet you’re being so easy for him now. No challenge laid before him.

“Anything I can do?” You ask. Feeling the warmth of his skin under your palms where you slide down his shoulders. Kneading skin. Nails withdrawn tonight.

The air shifts on those words. Tumbles away like ash on the breeze.

He pulls back and gazes up at you. Flick of long lashes. Something stirs in his eyes. He looks up at you before suddenly he’s rising to his feet with the scrape of the chair slicing into the silence.

He cups the back of your neck and kisses you firmly. Cotton sleeves drape to your body as he pressed his whole self to you. His lips becomes insistent. Kiss warps into hunger.

He��s ripping away to nip your neck and lick kisses at your shoulders. Back pressed firmly up against the hard edge of the table. His body keeps you there. He’s pawing at your chemise. Melting his mouth to yours again as fumbled hands slip your skirts up.

He’s giving you kisses that make your heart slip to warm treacle. Pouring down your ribs and melting. Stunning your lips drunk that this is how he wants to soothe a bad day. With the endless press and utterly blotting sensation of you.

His cheeks are furiously pink. Eyes black savage pits. Lips all sore. He keeps his hold on your mouth and makes your breath come short.

He plucks you up off the floor and spreads you on the table like you’re the next dinner course. Whips your chemise up to your knees. Lays you back.

You gasp. “Paul. Here?”

He can offer no answer.

His eyes burn shiny with the newly unveiled skin of your thighs right down to your toes. The arch of your legs. Plump thigh. Shapely calves. Delicious pussy all bare. Lips plump and cast in firelight. Ready for him.

He throws one of your chunky thighs over his back, and takes to one knee to eat you out.

Bliss bites right through you - clean through - spiking your blushes to top pitch. Making you shiver. Thighs seek to curl around his head and your hand shoots up to rake your nails through his silky hair.

You groan with the puffy glide of his fat tongue over your pussy. Lathing and searching. Swiping for your taste and diving for more. You taste like every tart sweet fruit - sugared and full with juice. Ripe to burst.

He doesn’t rush a single thing about this; takes his time to prod his tongue into you. Spread you open with tongue alone. Opens the bowl of your hips wide, wider, with his hands digging to the meat on your thighs. Fingers leaving dips in flesh.

Licks and laps at the new fresh slick he coaxed free. He’s chasing your pleasure. Not his. He’s going on search of it; a determined conquest. Touching you like you’re the holiest thing he’s ever known. Ever tasted.

You’re all sighs and easy moans as he digs his face into your mons. Inhaling the smell of your soap that clings to your curls. Eyes flutter closed with the pleasure of it.

“I love when you melt for me.” He says. Breath bursts in warm puffs over your pussy when he speaks. When you uncurl from being impossible and stubborn.

You catch sight of his lips. Glossy. He’s wearing a wet orange smear in the low amber light of the fire.

“I don’t melt for anyone. My angel.” You sigh. Hips leaping to his face as he suckles your clit like a nursing babe. Whining high as you slip your fingers through his scalp.

“Just you.” You gasp. Bliss draped upon every word.

His spit squelches into you. He spits and drools to make you wetter. He likes it. Spitting frothy globs into you, and scooping it out with his tongue when the taste has changed entirely to you. Swirling it around because he loves to have you dripping.

Juices are flowing out of you and dribbling slowly to leave a slippery stain on this shiny table. When he next eats a meal here, in this very chair. He’ll smile remembering this moment.

He twists his head to lap at a new angle. Eyes focused on yours. And it hurts to tear away. You watch him and it makes him want to cum in his breeches right then and there.

It’s hypnotic to have him work you over with his mouth. You adore it when there’s hate-fucking and anger involved; you simply shatter to incomprehensible pieces when there’s slow romantic passion, mixed into the bargain.

He eats you like he’s trying to study you with his tongue. Like he can root out some answers in your taste. That heady flavour of flesh and sex and woman - somehow tangy somehow sweet. Elixir of life;

He swirls tiny sloppy circles around the swelling bead of your clit. Fingertips coming into play - the man was a studying military strategist. That came into use in times like these; rubbing your folds - up down up down - before pushing those slick fingertips in. Sinking deep enough to earn a rise out of you.

He eases back, takes his tongue away to watch as he used just his fingers instead. Watching your face. Watching the glide and pump of curling them to you until he finds a rhythm that drags that silken and soaked giving spot a teasing tickle inside you.

When your hips start to jump and you start squirming. He knows he’s found what he’s after.

That divine spread inside you that rose with every knuckle deep thrust of his fingers. Every vicious swipe with his tongue that cracks flickers of lightning across your nerves. Makes you throb with it. God he’s good.

Suction coming relentless and heavy from his mouth, scorching patterns in harsh zig-zags across your swollen lips. Fingers encouraging that all encompassing pang of pleasure that will wipe out your brain to blank when you cum.

He’s digging his face right in and eating determinedly - relentlessly, to get after that leg shaking portion of your climax that’s steadily growing.

Terrifying trapping fingers travelling up your cunt walls as they flutter fast on his fingers. You’re laying back on the dining room table, near sobbing with the need to cum.

He’s just drinking in every sensation soaked second as he gulps you down. Half to ease away his tensions; half because making you cum has become an occupation that’s scored its devotion on his heart. When he dies he hopes they crack open his chest and find it sat there in bleeding tattooed letters. It feels like it should be.

Wordlessly, he brutally shoved you to the knife edge of your orgasm that has you literally bursting. The shudder of your hips betrays it first. How he doesn’t alter his pace; he keeps steady as he coaxed you through: the way you taught him.

Don’t speed up just because I’m close. Keep steady with whatever it is you’re doing.

You’d taught him that on your honeymoon hazy watercolour memories all misty to recall. With your clit captured in his mouth and your fingers fisted in his hair.

He’s a good student. He makes you gush into and all over his mouth. Spurting across the table top and he hums with the bliss of your release and doesn’t stop just because you do.

He drives and drags and slurps up every tender drop. Nurses you into the aftershocks with his tongue. Gentle gathered little noises as he swallows and gains his breath again. Tries to take control of his heart and the buzzing in his ears.

You’re slowly fading from shouts to whines. Fingers grappled into his on your now clammy thighs. Where you’d thrashed and wailed. Your hands held firm to him like anchors.

“My god, you give good head, my love.” You sigh. Back arching and your eyes still flicked closed.

“I was instructed by the best.” He insists. Before dropping an open mouthed kiss right on your cunt.

“Same time tomorrow?“ You ask with an impetuous smile. The clock strikes two.

He gazes back at from between your legs. Smile finally having returned. Eyes all slippery warm with passion.

“Minx.”

“Yes, but entirely yours.”

“Bed?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

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