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punk-in-docs · 1 year

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“if you want to come you better beg” x prince paul cause i need this filth 😩👀

🥀Qualities of Mercy🥀

Prince Paul x Tsarevna // smut drabble - Bugger me sideways @usedtobecooler only the best for you babes crème de la crème - Prince Prick and some bratty behaviour culminating in angry!hate!fucking coming up. Also short? I don’t think I can write short drabble a about this man. I’m having a lot of feelings ok.

Some babes I know may want to see this @indouloureux @munsonswhore86 @heyndrix @lunatictardis @creme-bruhlee @callmeloverr @roanniom

It’s an odd relief to see the signs of war increase with each gained mile, burnt out patches of land and artillery tracks wedged into the mud. Foul air, fire, and rifle smoke; it means you’re closing in on your goal.

It means you’re that much closer to your husband.

Foul boggy mud, and nipping winds that cut to bone. You’re rumbling your way along treacherous roads, ever closer.

The terrain is dismal. There’s not even any sweetly soft birdsong chirping from the trees. There’s no kind nature. There’s only war and man, and guttural cries of the wounded. A landscape drizzled with slanted misty rain. Stubby felled larch trees and splintered bark.

The soldiers encamped, look like misshapen beasts. Blood crusted black, and the wounded wearing filthy yellowed bandages. Eyes missing, limbs turned to stumps. Squatting and huddling in clumps in the woods. Shivering under canvas with pithy licks of orange campfires staining the air with spicy woodsmoke.

They watch the carriage pass with rapt fascination. But too cold to react.

You weren’t expected.

That fact is writ plain as day all over the face of the dirt smeared soldier who trudged up to the carriage window. The soldier on watch. Who’d been pissing up against as tree when you rolled up.

His eyebrows buoy in surprise as you drop your fur lined hood.

“My Lady-“ He rasped in surprise.

“Tsarevna.” Your second maid, Maricel, leaned forward and snipped. Voice like a barking hound. Just as dogged.

She was eternally bolshy and hard edged. Hated you not being given the proper due politesse as deserving of your rank. She took great offence to those who didn’t understand the severity of your position.

“I’m here to see my husband. Kindly take me to him.”

“I’m not sure he’ll want- he’s occupied with many important matters.“ He fumbles for an excuse.

Maricel’s words come locked in impatience.

“Are you suggesting the Tsarevna of Russia is unimportant?” She tests.

“No- I.”

“He will carve out the time for his wife, you dumb prick.” She points out. Rubbing her shivering hands.

“Now, now.” You scold her.

She merely rolls her eyes. Not frightened by you whatsoever. Just pissy cause she’s cold.

The solider shuffles on his feet. Breaks eye contact. “I’m not sure I have the authority to-“

“Are you going to make me repeat myself.” You warn. Ire threaded into every word.

You stare him down with slicing diamond eyes. Tips sharpened and designed to cut.

A look you’ve thieved and mastered from Catherine’s own brand of venom. Don’t budge an inch.

It’s enough to get him to snap his mouth shut.

“No. Uh. Of course. This way, Tsarevna.”

You clambered out that boxy royal carriage. Door encrusted in a golden crest. Dainty sky blue heel sinking into earth. Hem sodden and dragged with it in no time. Maricel follows you dutifully. Your guard dog.

“Cunt.” Maricel bites out at the solider as she shuffled after you. Trudging into the muck.

“Put your forked tongue away.” You suggest.

She moodily deigns to do as you say.

You fold your gloved hands. Pretty pearl buttons march along your wrists now seeming contemptuous among all this. You rub at them to spark up some warmth in your numb fingers, as you looked around for the cluster of carmine coated generals.

Slipping and staining your skirts with slodgy mud as you followed the dismal soldier who’d take you to him. Your heels slip up, your feet get bogged. The stench of this place is curdling your lungs. Burnt larch trees and smoke and decay.

You press on. Determined.

The men swim their their groggy eyes to you. This place is used to viscera and gummy black blood, and mud crusted ash.

By comparison you look like a chunk of pure silken teal sky, fallen to earth. Precious and spotless. A drop of stunning sapphire wedged into all this dirt and death.

You squelch your way through tents and surgeon tents where men lay gouged and exposed. Rotting alive and shivering under the canvas as they cried out to the chowder thick sky. Rain melting on their eyelashes.

The smoke cleared past you, drifting. And then your overly elegant shape comes moulded out the congealing blood and smog of his hell. Pearl buttons, satin, and floral petal perfume. A wrenching juxtaposition coinciding.

You see your husband. Through the cloth mouth of one of the larger tents. No mistaking those puddle eyes for anyone else. The white scratchy wig. The cut of his powder blue coat and red royal medals slashing blood.

He’s gathered with men around a map table staked out with battle plans. This fare is all simplicity. Battle for blood and the vicinity of conquering men.

This is a land shuttered to the gaze of your sex. Your kind do not come roaming here. Not noble women anyway. The generals of mild importance probably had their favourite whores fetched in, however.

You stand and his eyes travel at last to yours. You smile lightly.

His expression altered into bitterness. Eyes lost their walnut warmth. Jaw clenched. Mood spiked sour.

He told you distinctly not to fucking come.

Yet here you stand.

You meet his burnt umber gaze and the sparky fire flecked there, scalds you.

“Tsarevich.” You greet him. Breath whipped to silver. You’re standing in the misty rain.

Waiting to see what comes spat back.

The generals clustering him, all bow in confusion and politely bob their unkempt wigged heads.

Not Paul.

His jaw clenched. Expression stiff. Posture as rigid as a Siberian Larch.

You’re fucking in for it now.

You batted at the sopping stretch of canvas. Hurling it out the way. Rain crashes down into your sprouting feathered hat and onto your shoulders.

Every squelch of your step into the oozing mud came sharp. Striking as a gut punch.

He’s following, hot on your heels, and you want to turn around and swing a punch into the angelic cherubim face you’d missed all these lonely long eight months.

His anger set off your own. Silky black gunpowder meeting roaring flame.

He’s livid.

You stand in his quarters. His tent is this huge beast of a thing. Clean and comfortable. A room with a table and maps and trunks takes up one. Green and gold tapestries make the walls slightly more habitable. More sophisticated. A cut above the desolate forest and the miseries of the wounded.

An emerald velvet curtain shields off the area where his ornate downy bed must be. He was still a Prince after all. He’ll be among his men. But he’s not sleeping in a frozen bedroll in the muck like an animal.

He storms into this space behind you and slaps the canvas closed. Words snapping out his mouth, that flimsy tent walls and steadily dripping rain will not conceal.

“This is not a place for you. You’re not supposed to be here.”

You don’t twist back to him as you angrily shed your gloves. Ripping them off like it was your own skin.

“Heaven forfend. I travel for two days in an uncomfortable carriage in the fucking driving rain to come see my husband and this is the thanks I get?”

“I told you not to come!” His words stamp out his mouth. He stabs a finger in the air. Aiming it as you.

“A lovely welcome.” You stab back.

He’s toe to toe with you. Muddy boots. Those chocolate eyes are all bitter. Not skated in love. Cold as all this terrible mud you’re bogged into.

“I don’t need you here. I have enough to deal with on my plate as it is fighting these Turks. I don’t need my wife by my side whilst I’m engaged in matters of battle.”

You steel your wilful jaw and bathe in the burnt brown shadow of his scowl.

“I am your wife. I have been left rotting at court. In misery now you’re gone. I decided to come and see you. To be here, by your side. In sickness and in health and even in battle. I don’t consider that as an action that deserves censure.”

“Yes it fucking is. I don’t need you here.” He shouts.

The burn of tears stings at your chest. Rips at your eyes. The man you’ve missed and ached after for months now and this is his choice of words levelled at you. It’s cutting.

“Lovely.” You bite out. “Well then. I won’t waste my time loitering around for you to yell at me.” You grip your gloves and turn back to him.

“Fuck you, Paul. Good day. Go back to your warring, and muddy filth.” You finish acidly. Your throat is full of clotting fire. Your rage. In situ with your wounded pride.

You shove at his coated chest, dull gold buttons. Go to move past him. Wipe your boots on his fine rug floors on the way out.

Your ruined shoes stick on the spot. He’s banded a hand around your wrist. It tugs. Burns skin.

“Let go.” You seethe. Pull your arm. You don’t look at him. Jaw grit.

He does not.

You wrench again. It brings you closer to him. You snarl. He stills your arm.

You do meet his gaze. The glint of fire - raked embers - returns to his eyes.

“No.” He decided.

Oh, now he’s in for it.

Anger spumes out of you like raining cursed hellfire. He should be terrified. You are mighty. Goddess of war backed with wrath. Angrier than Ares. These men should cower under your golden gaze. Desolation writ into you so heavily they should run for the hills.

“Thought you didn’t need me? Why would the mighty Tsarevich need his dumb bitch of a wife at his side? Run out of good whores have you?”

It was too late for niceties.

“Just be quiet.” He snaps.

Stepping very close. Close enough to touch only he doesn’t. His eyes move to your mouth. His hand seeks for your waist. Reels you in.

You don’t want too. But you clam up. You want to rear back and swing your fist to strike him. Preferably with a knife.

“I have never known a woman as disobedient. Nor as wilfully stubborn as you are. It’s infuriating.” He snipes.

His breath warms your mouth. He smells like his woody spice soap and bitter brush of smoke, and sweat. Still Paul. Underneath all things.

“Good.” You snarl with a nod. “I’m glad to have been such an inconvenience.”

“Constant dagger in my side.”

“Fuck you.” You announce passionately.

“I have had enough of your inability to listen to my orders.” He comments.

“Tough shit.” You snark.

“Elegant verbiage.” He insults.

His gaze is swimming into something steel black and lethal. You hate how much you like looking at him like this. It almost makes him look intimidating and handsome.

At this point, you’re half desire, half pure lightning hot rage.

“Get back to me when I don’t want to stick a knife in your thigh. Maybe my vocabulary will improve.” You hiss.

You’re so locked and entwined with this man. Tug his strings and it’s sure enough to jerk some distant part of you, merely by extension.

“Are you wet right now?” He asks. Head tilting His lashes shutter his eyes as he scans you. From the dirt crusted hem, sweeping upwards.

Your mouth is dry as tumbling scorched sands. Clench your teeth to dust. Heart ramming your tonsils.

He spies that twitch in your face. “Am I to take that as a yes, Tsarevna?”

If looks could kill.

“I’m going to fuck you. I know how plaint and weak it makes you when I work that delicious cunt open with my cock.” He steps you back. Hands tugged in your dress. Leading.

“I will fuck every disobedient word and thought out that head. Wife.” He sneers.

He pushes you to one of the wooden columns. Shunts a breath out of you. Hands digging through your skirts. Searching for your pussy.

You rake your nails into the nape of his neck. Hope it stings. Pray it brings blood.

“Be careful what you wish for.” You warn.

He smiles.

He’s fucking you not two minutes later.

Naturally, it didn’t take him long. You succumbed way too easy. Melted like butter, really.

He’s slithered to the gaps in your armour and snuck beneath with all the cunning adroitness of a serpent. You detest it.

He doesn’t give you what you need. Of course not. He doesn’t make this easy. His actions are all dipped in mocking taunt and brat.

He splayed you open, and rubs the fat leaking head of his cock against your trembling pussy. Eight months of nothing your your own fingers and he’s making you sit and beg like a trained lapdog.

Slapping it to your clit and smiling when you lurch. Unwilling to feed the head into you just yet.

It’s fucking agony.

You’re ready to slit his throat by the time he rewards you with sinking to the hilt in one ramming surge of his hips. The anger dissipates - a little.

You soothe the rest of it by leaning up and gnashing your teeth into his neck. Clamp down hard- force him to fuck you harder.

He cursed when sliding into you. Mumbled wisely about how conflict always made you so juicy wet for him. He pulled back and taunted you with your own greediness for his cock. The shine of your arousal coating him all glossy. A pretty sight, that.

“Hear how wet you are my love?” He lurches and slams you. A sharp stroke that wracked every vertebrae of your spine.

The sounds that come keening from you make your eyes flick back into your head. Enough to make him more smug.

“Utterly filthy. Soaking.” He huffs in gasps. “Making wet patches on my bed like a damn harlot.”

“Can’t believe you. Hmm- fucking brat. Yelling at me for coming here.” You manage to gasp. Cheeks blistering hot with this anger spurned arousal. Nails clawed into the carved headboard.

A hiccup snags the back of your throat as he knees closer.

Pushes your legs almost crushed up to your tits. Your stays almost strangling you. You cry loud because of this new angle. Makes him punch a spot inside that almost aches.

“I think this cunt is more pleased to see me than you are.” He smirks. Hands with dirty nails digging into your thighs. Ten half moons socketed into your quivering flesh.

“Fucking hell.” Spews out your mouth. Unguarded. He’s severing every strong steel thread of your resolve.

“I’ll take that as yes.” He says. Hair falls choppy in front of his wild eyes. Tiger eyes. Frightful fierce. Hands clamped to your thighs. He spreads you and sits up to stuff himself deeper. Harder. Faster.

The noises he’s getting out of you are just growing and growing. Rising in pitch and volume. So much so you’re swirling your hips to him to get feedback off that friction. That burgeoning pleasure begins to slice mean into your belly.

“How you moan for me when I give you my cock. Never gets old.” He grins.

“Never too late to punish my disobedient-“ he huffs and fucks hard inbetween his words. “Petulant. Stubborn. Wife.” He insists with a playful leer.

He can tell by the wails how close you are. Enough to taste it now. That eye rolling pressure ready to snap.

His cock stretched you just right. Stabbed into the gaping cup of your womb. You’re so treacherously close to that blissful peak you go rigid trying to chase it down and let the sensation ruin you.

It was mind meltingly good. Close and looming closer. Heat wrapping your limbs and warping your mind to bend to him. Every atom of you trained for this pleasure to come-

He yanks his cock out of you so fast, you want to shriek.

That coal hot glow of orgasm withers and curls to ash. He’s back to slipping his fat head around your cit again. Smearing your cunt in a sticky taste he’ll find and devour later.

“You fucking-“ you glare up at him all blissed and edged. Cunt clenching on nothing but air. He smooths both his thumbs over your pretty and dripping pussy lips. Making you throb.

“If you want to cum, you better beg.” He insists.

“I could kill you.” You seethe. Words dressed in a growl.

He tilts his head. Teasing. “Yes?”

You yelp when his cock slams into you once more. Puff for breath. God fucking dammit.

“How about now?” He checks as he folds you in half, yet again. Cock rooted deep.

The start of a long night, to be sure.

Hours later, darkness wraps you up. Comforting tenebrous blanket. Candles are lit. Dozy gold and matte dark pours into the tent.

He has you food brought in as an apology.

Someone ducks in the tent with a tray of it. He pulls on his boots to go fetch it. Leaves you boneless on his goose feather plumped bed.

There’s a bottle of wine with dinner too. Not the best but you’re not complaining. Dry hard biscuits and a salty wedge of goats cheese was your lot in the carriage ride here.

There’s a thick milky porridge with creamy oats and nutmeg and warming spices. A slab of pink roasted meat glistening with fat and golden globs of plain boiled potatoes barely salted. Sided with some hunk of brown hardy bread smeared in greasy butter.

This food is hot and warm and fills your belly well. He feeds it to you.

It’s how he soothes. But it’s not the only way he wants to offer you comfort.

He gets naked and climbs under the covers. Always bathed you in limitless comforts and luxuries after a rough fuck. The calm sweetness after a raging storm of passion and stinging claws and slamming hate. When the blood has dried to rust, along with the nasty words.

He slips between your legs under the sheets to tongue at your cunt like it’s a juicy honeycomb treat that drips honey.

It’s dripping him.

He eats it out of you. You sigh all dreamy and elongate your neck back to pillows that smell like his shaving soap, to moan his name.

Slipping your nails over the short brown thorns of hair. Rake over his scalp.

You gasp his name and you know the soldiers will have heard the sound sneak out the tent flaps. You don’t care.

His tongue slithers and laps through your puffy sex. Fully nursing your clit with the curl of his tongue. Brushes through the tactile scratch of your curls there. He loves burying his nose in them.

When he’s done he slinks up from under his furs and sheets. Wiping his mouth in the back of his hand. Still a little bit of both of you combined is smeared wetly across one cheek.

It catches in the flickering murky light. Candles are spinning red gold in the dim. Rain is a steady pat on the tent roof.

You look down at him. His gaze is all warmth and tenderness again. A knowing smile slopes the corner of his mouth.

“Did you really travel all this way just so I could fuck you?” He asks all smug.

You smirk. “Got what I wanted, now didn’t I.” You dismiss archly.

But you both know it seats a little deeper than that. There’s definite skin both of you have sunk into this game. It might even be the gummy beating walls of your hearts involved.

“You do know you’re a walking fucking nightmare.” He tells you.

Slotting himself between your hips. Seeking to hold your hands as he rolls into you. Makes your cunt clench.

Your hand slips from stroking his hair, downwards. Vicing your cruel hand around his soft throat. His eyes blaze again.

“Don’t you dare fucking forget it.” You sneer.

He sends you home sore - five days after your arrival.

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dingusfreakhxrrington · 2 years

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Hi luv, Since you've mentioned that you gonna start writing for Joe Quinn's other characters, I do have a request for Prince Paul. So, I was thinking that the reader is pining and vying for his attention then she got upset when she heard that Paul is set to marry someone else because Paul thought that reader's feelings for him are only platonic. During party dinner, they were about to discuss about the marriage but she cannot take the jealousy anymore and stormed out somewhere to the garden and then Paul followed her then the confession onwards and you can decide what happens next. You can write this if you're free. I'm dying for Prince Paul content lol! Thanks! 💞💞

It Has Always Been You

gif by me

summary: you’ve had feelings for paul for a while but you soon come to hear that he is set to marry someone else. after running off during dinner, paul comes out to find you in the gardens where you finally confess your true feelings, waiting anxiously to hear what he has to say.

pairing: prince paul x f!reader

warnings: a little angst, mostly fluff, mentions of marriage, mentions of engagement, mutual pining, reader ‘isn’t like other princesses’

word count: 2k

a/n: sorry this took a while, i wasn’t sure what to write but i came to me over the past couple of days while i’ve been ill and i can’t thank you enough for requesting this because i love how it turned out 🤍

friendly reminder that comments and reblogs are just as (if not more than) important as likes!

The prince of Russia was a difficult man to read, despite what others thought of him. He was often in a sour mood, his face full of frowns and rarely smiles.

He was always arguing with his mother, spitting out vile words about her as he told her he hated her. Although, he always succumbed to her love when she was gentle with him. He missed his father and, as much as he hated his mother at times, he still needed her love.

Most assumed he was stuck up and petty, always whining about something or throwing another tantrum despite how easy he had it in life.

In reality, that was true, other than how easy many thought he had it, but there was far more to him beneath the surface.

In the time since you had come to Russia, you had made many attempts at befriending the prince.

You had spoken to him on occasion and, after some time, found that he was often the one coming to find you whenever there was a party or dinner you were both attending.

Despite your belief that you had managed to grow closer to him, hoping for the chance of perhaps courting him, you soon came to learn that he was engaged and set to marry another.

It had all been kept rather quiet as there was talk he first did not approve of the match his mother had set for him but, once his suitor had won his heart the news quickly spread through the palace.

To say you were unhappy with the news would have been an understatement. You were well and truly heartbroken.

Still, you knew there was little you could do to prevent the marriage, especially when the Empress herself was so set on it. So, you held your tongue and allowed him to confide in you as a friend would and nothing more.

At least, until talk of the marriage started at the next dinner party.

“Ah, Paul my dear. Hurry and sit down, we must discuss the details of your wedding.”

Paul was walking with his bride-to-be, their arms entwined as he escorted her to the table to eat when his mother called out to them.

You glanced over, watching him smile as he held her hand and pulled out her chair for her. The princess of Germany, the woman he was to wed. She was beautiful, no one could deny that, and you could see why Paul had fallen for her.

Grace and beauty had never really been your thing, although you had been well educated in how a princess was supposed to behave.

When you spoke with Paul at first you were quiet and composed, letting him lead the conversation, but when he seemed to only tire of you quickly you began to show your true colours.

You started to make jokes and speak your mind, opting to catch his attention with a blunt truth rather than a quaint smile and a giggle. Your laughs grew louder and more uncontrolled; your thoughts rarely kept to yourself as you discussed whatever had been on your mind.

It seemed to have captivated him for a while at least, and he started to open up to you too, showing you a side he scarcely showed to anyone else. Although now you figured perhaps he preferred beauty and grace after all.

The two of you were friends and good ones at that. You should have been content with that but you weren’t and you knew you never would be. You were in love with him, as foolish as that now seemed, and it was almost impossible for you to sit there and be happy for him.

If he was truly happy then you would be too, even when you were not. You just needed some more time to come to terms with the reality, time to let it sink in so that you could truly support him even when he had not chosen you.

So, you stood up without a word. Some eyes darted to you, noticing the abrupt manner in which you had risen to your feet. Others barely even noticed you were there, all much too focused on the prince and his betrothed.

Before long you found yourself in the gardens as you ran a finger through your already dishevelled hair.

You tugged at your corset, pulling it until it gave way under the force and loosened enough for you to properly breathe. It only helped a little, your breathing still hastened and ragged as you tried to quell your racing mind.

Although you were a princess, you were never all that good at being a proper lady. When you were being taught to read and write you’d have much rather been taking lessons on the back of a horse or out fighting with a sword in hand.

You weren’t delicate or graceful or beautiful. You were just you. Rowdy and lively and filled with a little rebellion. You weren’t what he wanted, you weren’t her.

“Y/n?”

His breathing was as ragged as yours when he finally caught up with you, his wig already beginning to slip out of place as he spoke to you.

“Paul? What are you doing out here?”

You didn’t understand why he’d followed you, not when his perfect bride was waiting for him inside.

“I saw you leave, I came to find you. Why are you out here? Why did you leave?”

His eyes were soft and far too gentle, searching for something unbeknownst to you within your own.

He was to be married in less than a few weeks' time and yet he was out here with you rather than sitting in there as his mother discussed wedding details with him.

Your sigh was loud as it tumbled from your lips, your frustration beginning to show through the cracks in the ever-so-careful mask you had put on for show.

Maybe if you just told him and he put some space between you it would be easier. Maybe you just needed to get out with it and be done with it. Maybe this was the best thing to do after all.

“I am out here because I cannot bear to be in there any longer. I cannot sit there and listen to all the talk of your wedding and pretend I am happy for you. I cannot sit there and smile as though I am not in love with you. That, Paul, is why I am out here.”

Your voice had come out in a much harsher tone than you had intended and, by the time you were done, there were tears prickling in your eyes.

His eyes widened as you pushed your palm to your forehead, already thinking yourself a fool for what you had said. Maybe it hadn’t been the right thing to say after all. Especially now that you were crying in front of him — over him.

“Y-You love me?”

His voice was a stutter but you only sighed again.

“Yes. Now, yell at me all you want or tell me to go or simply just leave. Do not make me stand here like a fool any longer.”

He stepped closer and before you had time to move away, his hand was on your cheek, turning your face towards him once again.

“You love me?” His voice was stronger now, more sure. It was a fact no longer in question yet he asked again anyway, simply wanting to hear your answer again.

Your eyes flickered up to him, bashful in the way you nodded, pushing your head gently against the palm of his hand.

“Yes,” you whispered now, almost afraid of your own words.

In but a single blink, his lips were on yours. They were everything you had expected, soft and passionate and sweet. They found rhythm with yours as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him so that you were now chest to chest.

When you finally parted solely for the sake of taking in some air, he smiled.

It was such a genuine smile, one you had not expected to see after confessing your love to a man who was supposed to have already given his heart to another.

“Say it again,” he asked his voice nothing but a tender breath against your skin.

“I love you, Paul,” you complied, almost forgetting entirely that he was engaged to be wed to another in only a few weeks' time.

“And I, you.” He gently ran the back of his hand against your cheek, his knuckles so delicate as they moved across your skin.

You reached up and wrapped your hand around his wrist, reason finding you once again as you pulled his hand away, taking a step back.

“You cannot say this, not now. You are to be married. You love her, not me.”

He stepped forward once again, closing the distance between you no sooner than you had put it there. “I have never loved her. It has always been you.”

Your heart wrenched at his words, struggling to believe them. He was joking, toying with you. He had to be, it was the only thing that made sense.

“Why did you say nothing sooner? Why agree to marry her?”

“Because I thought you would never feel the same. I did not know, did not think you could ever love me as I do you.”

You scoffed, your voice fragile as your fingers moved to rub out the creases in your brow. “Then we are both fools.”

It was quiet for a moment as he too chuckled, moving closer to you once again. He brushed your dishevelled hair behind your ear, not bothering to move his hand away once he was done.

“Marry me,” he said, the words a promise rather than a question.

“What about your betrothal?”

“We need not worry about that. My mother will call the engagement off if I ask her. She has always preferred you anyway.”

A smile graced your lips and you let yourself succumb to his embrace, no longer caring if anyone caught the two of you.

You reached up, tugging his wig from his head, and tossed it aside as you ran your fingers through his natural curls.

He did not complain when you licked at your thumb and began to rub at the makeup on his face, smudging it as you tried to free him from beneath it.

You just wanted to see him as he was supposed to be, as you had rarely seen him before. The man underneath the royal title, beneath the mask — the man you loved.

“I love you,” he said again, leaning forward with a faint smile to brush his nose against yours, his lips only a pinhead’s width away from your own.

I love you. He would never tire of the words. He’d repeat them endlessly he if could, muttering them between kisses when his lips found yours again.

He had waited so long to say them, so long to hear them come from your lips as well. He’d convinced himself it was never going to happen, that you would only ever see him as a dear friend.

There was not a bird in the sky that could fly as high as he was feeling right at that moment, knowing that you harboured the same feelings for him. Knowing that you loved him too.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

You chuckled against his lips, smiling as you felt his arm tighten around your waist, pulling you closer than ever before. When the kisses ceased, he simply held you in his arms. His hands cupped your face, his thumb brushing tenderly across your flushed cheeks.

“I love you. I always have and I always will. Say you’ll marry me, I need to hear you say it. I need to know this is real.”

His voice was so quiet, so gentle. His eyes burning with adoration and desire. You were all he wanted — everything he wanted.

“Of course, I’ll marry you, you fool. I would have married you the very day we met if you had only asked.”

If it were even possible, he smiled wider and his lips found their place with yours once again.

feel free to let me know if you want to be added to or removed from my taglist!

taglist: @male-reader-reblogs

#—dinguswritings ⌕#prince paul #prince paul x reader #prince paul catherine the great #prince paul joseph quinn #prince paul x f!reader #prince paul x fem reader #prince paul x female reader #prince paul fluff #prince paul angst #requested #fujiihime

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wheels-of-despair · 1 year

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Joseph Quinn Characters x Mediocre Valentine's Day Cards

#graphics of despair #jqvd #joseph quinn characters #joseph quinn x valentine's day #prince paul #catherine the great #prince paul catherine the great

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joelslegalwhre · 2 years

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I was watching the last episode of catherine the great today and LISTEN.

my dad sat next to me on the couch and when prince paul came on screen he literally went “oh that’s eddie, right?” (this man hasn’t even watched st) and then my mom came in, saw him and was like “Eddie!”. y’all-

#catherine the great #prince paul joseph quinn #prince paul catherine the great #eddie munson #stranger things 4

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joesquinns · 2 months

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JOSEPH QUINN as PRINCE PAUL in Catherine The Great

#josephquinnedit #joequinnedit #jqedit #joseph quinn #joe quinn #catherine the great #prince paul #*

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fyeaheddiemunson · 1 year

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kwistowee · 1 year

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Mean Girls reboot looks amazing JOSEPH QUINN as PRINCE PAUL CATHERINE THE GREAT (2019)

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pedgito · 1 year

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#relatable

#jqedit #josephquinnedit #joseph quinn #joe quinn #joseph quinn edit #joe quinn edit #tvedit #stcastedit #catherine the great #prince paul #*#kwistowee

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fujiihime · 2 years

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Joseph Quinn's Other Characters Fics (Series/One-Shots) - I

I made a list of currently reading and recommended fics for Joseph Quinn's other characters here on Tumblr. All were beautifully written by amazing writers. These writers are incredible and full of brilliant ideas, so please visit their blogs and check all of their works. Happy reading! Don’t forget to comment and reblog their works. You may also reblog this list to share with everyone/blog mutuals. Thank you! (For 18+, MDNI)

Prince Paul (Catherine the Great)

Pick Your Poison | 2 | 3 by @punk-in-docs

Keep Watch Over The Door Of My Lips

And The Stars Sighed In Unison

Lay No Claim | 2 by @the-suburban-blues

It Has Always Been You by @dingusfreakhxrrington

With Me Now by @the-suburban-blues

Our Duty & Birth Of 1st Child by @emmywrites-blog

Deserve Love Series | 2 | 3 | 4 | ED by @boohoo-clo

Thank You by @m7nson

Out Of The Dark by @creme-bruhlee

My Darling by @helpwhatsthis

Childish by @badmirvcle

Eye for An Eye by @rocknrollbabe14

Ralph (TimeWasters)

At Last | 2 | 3 | 4 | ED by @luv4fandoms

It's My Party And I'll Cry If I Want To by @brighteyedbushybrowed

Please & Darling by @no-mercy-bby

Wizard by @creme-bruhlee

To Be Loved by @stevies-corner

A Special Present For A Special Boy by @littlelioncub43

Who's A Good Boy? | 2 @mypoisonedvine

Baby Boy by @historygeekfics

Show Me

Untitled by @thefreak-thebanished

A Life Well Loved by @eddiemunsonthebanished

Words Of Advice | 2 by @ladyfogg

My Sweet Boy by @forays-into-fiction

A Rivalry For The Ages by @ladybug0095

The Dance by @stinkysam

Tell the World by @x-its-funnier-in-enochian-x

Busy Streets And Busy Lives @thefreak-thebanished

Kinktober: Day13 - Face Sitting by @xcatnapsx

My Way Of Life by @ @sadboyeddie

Tom Grant (Make Up)

You Got Me by @mypoisonedvine

WindSwept by @ladyfogg

Lemons Lollipops and Salt | 2(WIP) by @cherrielip

Adore You by @inklore

5 Minutes In Heaven

A Couple Hours by @luvsouya

Little Thief by @dingusfreakhxrrington

Thunder by @loves0phelia

Maybe It's A Good Thing? | 2 by @dingusfreakhxrrington

Prompts | 2 | 3 by @ladylannisterxo

Welcome Home by @mypoisonedvine

Untitled by @ginger-mews

New Girl | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 by @xcatnapsx

I'm Home by @bluesfortheredj

Cheer Up by @x-its-funnier-in-enochian-x

Untitled | Prompt by @joemazzmatazz

I'm Not Her by @munsonxmayhem

Smashed by @joekeeryswife

Rebound | 2 | 3 by @munsonxmayhem

Another Sad Love Song by @rocknrollbabe14

Kisses from Cupid by @hawkinsbanishedhero

His Past And His Future by @munsonxmayhem

New Angel by @fxckadoodledoomunson

Mr. And Mrs. Grant by @munsonxmayhem

Tom Grant Series by @wheels-of-despair

Leonard Bast (Howards End)

A Friend Of A Friend by @the-suburban-blues

All I'd Ever Need @the-suburban-blues

As Stubborn As A Mule by @writing-fanics

Arthur Havisham (Dickensian)

The Arrangement | 2 | 3 (x M!Reader) by @ladyfogg

One Of Those Nights (x M!Reader) by @alex-drinks-blood

Untitled (xPlatonicF!Reader) by @dingusfreakhxrrington

Letters (x M!Reader) by @axailslink

Million Dollar Man (x F!Reader) by @lvlycheri

Not All Who Wander Are Lost (x M!Reader) by @lvlycheri

It's Okay (xPlatonicF!Reader) by @x-its-funnier-in-enochian-x

Please Don't Go (x M!Reader)

Untitled (x M!Reader) by @alex-drinks-blood

Maybe Someday (x M!Reader) by @casettewrecked

Untitled (x M!Reader) by @razzledazzlestuff

Can The Past Save The Future (x M!Reader) by @stardancerluv

Koner (Game of Thrones)

Only You | 2 | 3 by @creme-bruhlee

Night Watch by @historygeekfics

A Not-So-Knight and His Spellcaster | 2(WIP) by @brighteyedbushybrowed

Winter Nights | 2 by @ercklln

A Winter's Tale by @lyricswrittenbythesecretdreamer

Dark Koner (Untitled) by @mypoisonedvine

Note: I hope a lot more writers will write stories for these characters and I'm sure we're all excited to read more stories about it.

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babybluebex · 2 years

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𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 | 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐥 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | marrying the prince of russia would be dream if he wasn’t such a dick, but a late night conversation leads to a mutual understanding. 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | prince paul (catherine the great, 2019) x fem!reader 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 | smut (minors dni— p in v sex, unprotected sex, choking, breeding kink) hatefucking, possessiveness, mentions of death, mentions of blood 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 | i wrote most of this after i drank a coffee at midnight so if it’s nigh incoherent don’t worry about it

From the first glance, you did not like Prince Paul of Russia. And, apparently, he didn’t like you.

The first glimpse you got of him was at court, as you were being introduced. Your sole purpose in Russia was to be the prince’s wife and, while you resented your reasons for being in Russia, you had been treated well. Bathed and clothed in fine silk, there were worse fates for a girl. But there was something about the look of him that was offsetting to you.

For one, the powdered wig was a bit much. Along with the smeared triangle of rouge on his cheeks and the dab of it in the middle of his lips, it was a sight you weren’t familiar with. Your family was well-off, but not nearly important enough for your brothers or father to dress that way. It was just… Wrong. It wasn’t what you knew.

The way he stood and presented himself was another awful thing you spotted about him. He looked annoyed, almost as if he didn’t want to be there and had other things that he could have been doing. One of his hands was situated in the pocket of his ornate green jacket, the blue sash stretched across his chest, and the other hand hung at his side, tapping his fingers impatiently. You spotted the decorative sword that hung on his hip, and you held in laughter. He was the prince; of course he would have his weapon, even if it likely was fake.

Altogether, there was something off-putting about Prince Paul, and you didn’t like it.

You had to like him, though, or at least pretend to. He was the only reason you were brought from Germany— he was your husband. You had been married with the hope of giving him a child, and, even though the carriage ride from your home to Moscow had been long and tedious, you had hoped that at least Paul would be kind and that would make up for everything else.

There weren’t many accounts of the Russian prince, even fewer that painted him in a good light, but you had decided that you were going to make the decision for yourself whether Paul was a good man or not. And, so far, the way he was looking at you, with disdain and almost hatred in his owlish brown eyes, was not indicative of someone who would enjoy your company.

You didn’t get to have a proper conversation with him until after dinner. Even though you sat next to him and tried to engage him, he would never answer you, only curling up his lip and ignoring you. You knew better than to confront him in front of everyone, so you had to wait until after dinner, when you were alone with him.

Thankfully, your apartments in the palace were directly next to each other, and you opened the shared doors to see Paul. He was sitting at his desk, already dressed for bed, only the hints of rouge left on his lips as he read something by the light of the candles.

“Can I speak to you?” you started, and Paul turned to you, like he hadn’t heard you open the heavy wooden doors. He certainly knew you were there the whole time and only brought his attention to you when you demanded it; like an asshole.

“About what?” Paul asked. “There is nothing to discuss.”

“I think there is something,” you told him. “Are we not to discuss the marriage? Our expectations, our needs…?”

“Must we?” Paul said, and you frowned. “Fine. I only ask that you never make that face again.” He turned fully to you then, setting down his paper, and he gestured to you. “Out with it, then.”

You tilted your head as you watched him, and you crossed your arms over your chest. “You could lose your foul attitude,” you started. “You act like you do not want to be married.”

“I don’t, but go on,” Paul interjected, and you huffed.

“Why not?” you asked. “Why don’t you wish to be married?”

“I’d rather not discuss it with you,” Paul said, and you rolled your eyes.

“We’ll never thrive if we keep on like this,” you told him, and Paul knitted his eyebrows in annoyance. “Not that our marriage has to be strictly successful, but I would prefer it if my husband didn’t despise even the sight of me.”

“You shouldn’t have accepted my proposal, then,” Paul told you flippantly, and anger suddenly burned in your chest.

“You act as if I had a choice,” you sneered. “I was not asked if I wanted to be married, I was suddenly told a week ago that I was already married to you.”

“As is your role,” Paul insisted. He stood from his chair in all of his self-righteous glory, and he strode across the room to you until he was right on top of you. You took a step back, but he only followed you.

Something about being in his space was almost intoxicating, and you felt dizzy with his presence. Maybe it was the anger radiating hot off of his chest, or maybe it was his own princely aura, but something affected you greatly the closer that Paul got.

“Your role requires you to marry and bear children, preferably boys, and you’ve already succeeded at one of those things,” Paul spat at you. “You don’t get a choice in this.”

You sighed heavily, and shame radiated in your stomach when you realized that you had been staring at Paul’s mouth and his rouge-stained lips. “You still have lipstick on your mouth,” you told him; maybe if you played it as smug, he wouldn’t notice the way you trembled under his gaze.

“Did you hear anything I just said?” Paul asked. “You don’t get a choice, neither do I, and neither does any of the other fucking people in this palace.”

That stopped you dead in your smug tracks, and your face softened. “You didn’t have a choice?” you asked. “Is that why you resent me so?”

“Yes,” Paul started, but then squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t resent you, exactly, but I resent what you stand for. My first marriage...” Paul finally sighed, and he slunked over to his desk once more. “I’d rather not speak of it now, actually.”

“Oh,” you said softly. “I wasn’t told of your first marriage.”

“And I didn’t think that you had been,” Paul replied. “But now you know. So, no, I do not want to be married, I do not like you— if you returned to Germany tomorrow, that would please me— and I did not have a choice in this matter at all. The only choice I got was who I married, and even that was decided definitely by my mother.”

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“I mean, I was shown your portrait,” Paul sighed, turning to you once more. “I thought you looked lovely, so I said you, but my mother had the final say. If she had said no, then I would have had to pick a different girl.”

“It was decided for you,” you said slowly, and Paul nodded. “Neither of us quite know what autonomy is, do we?”

Finally, a smile cracked across Paul’s face, and he chuckled bitterly. “No, I suppose we don’t,” he said. “Now, leave me, I have things I need to do.”

“Like what?” you asked curiously, and Paul sighed heavily. It seemed your moment of levity was over, and that tepid, boiling anger returned.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Paul told you, shuffling his papers around. From your vantage point, you could spot another’s handwriting on the paper, much more feminine than anything that you were sure Paul was capable of, and your breath caught in your throat.

“What are those?” you asked.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Paul replied, and he shuffled them around once more to hide them from your view.

“Paul, please,” you said. You moved closer to him, further into the room, and you watched Paul gather up the papers and shove them into a drawer of the desk. “Are they business?”

“I said not to worry about it,” Paul said, and you could tell that he was seething. His chest rose and fell rapidly with angry breaths, and his cheeks were red; this time, though, it wasn’t the rouge.

“Paul—”

“You don’t know when to stop, do you?” Paul asked, his bitter laughter returning. “You don’t need to know, so you won’t. Leave my apartments, go to your own, and forget you ever saw them, do I make myself clear?”

“You can’t command me,” you said. Your own anger was starting to boil over, but there was an odd extra feeling, the heat from your angry belly slothing down between your legs. You couldn’t possibly find Paul’s anger arousing. He was your enemy, your sworn husband and biggest foe, he was not arousing. And yet, the way his eyes were dark, a different sort of darkness than before, made the feeling pool in your cunt.

“Would you like to bet?” Paul spat. He was right up on you again, his anger radiating in waves off of him, and the ugly feeling in your chest only got worse. “You infuriate me, woman, how are we to be married for even long enough for you to give me a son?”

“Fuck me,” you told him. “Go ahead, do it, get it over with. I know that’s the real reason you chose me; you saw my portrait and thought I would look nice on my back. Isn’t that right?”

“Don’t you dare presume why I chose you,” Paul said. “I told you, I thought you were beautiful; who knew you had a serpent’s tongue?”

“Beautiful?” you echoed. “Or fuckable?”

Within an instant, Paul was on you. For a moment, you expected him to hurt you, for his anger to have come to a high point and for his emotions to make him do something to harm you, but that wasn’t the case. Paul pounced on you, his hands grabbing your face, but he kissed you. He didn't even kiss you at the wedding ceremony. His mouth was searing hot, his kiss heavy and hungry, and you couldn’t help but kiss him back. You fisted at his shirt and drew him close, and you groaned as he opened his mouth against yours, his tongue snaking past your lips.

You had been kissed before, but never like this. Paul’s hands fell from your face and touched every bit of your body that he could find, your hips and shoulders and neck, and his hand finally found purchase around your throat. You gasped, his fingers digging into the flesh on the sides of your throat, and your heartbeat became loud in your ears. He wasn’t choking you; no, he was cutting off blood supply. As suspect as the action was, it made that hotness pool even heavier between your legs, and you felt dampness touch you.

“I’ll make this quick,” Paul told you, his lips lingering mere centimeters from yours.

“Make what quick?” you asked breathlessly, and Paul used his free hand to grab at your nightgown, all bare underneath. Quickly, your brain caught up with him, and you gasped. “Oh!”

“You’re so worried about being fuckable,” Paul said, and he pushed you to his bed. It was soft under your touch as he shoved you down onto your back, and you gasped as his kisses attacked your neck. “I’ll put that worry out of your mind, darling.” The nickname sounded venomous coming from Paul’s flushed mouth, but you dragged him but his curls back down into a searing kiss.

His hand fell from your throat in favor of tugging your nightgown up and off, and he chuckled lowly at the sight of your bare body. “What a thing to see,” he said, and his hand fell down to your waist and lower, and you writhed as his fingers swiped at your leaking slit. “Oh, and already so wet. You love fighting with me, don’t you? Do you find it a pleasure when we fight?”

“Paul,” you whimpered, and your back arched as he sank a finger into your wet heat. You had never had somebody inside you and the feeling was beautiful, exactly what you needed, and you felt your anger melt away as he worked his finger inside you.

“Be a good wife,” Paul said, his hand skating up our thigh to open your legs wider. You felt small under his hungry and lustful gaze, but something about it was reassuring. He would take care of you, you were sure of it. “Take me inside you. Just like this, darling, yes.”

You grabbed at the silken sheets and furs on the bed to try to ground yourself, keep yourself from floating into the stars with the glorious feeling he was giving you, and your mouth fell open when you felt his second finger prod at you. He pressed his second finger in without much resistance, and you whimpered at the foreign stretch. As odd as it felt though, it made the fire burn hot in your belly, and your thighs quivered.

“Jesus,” Paul laughed. His wide eyes were exploring your bare body, and he quickly leaned down to you and pressed a kiss to your chest. “I was told you were a virgin, but you react so beautifully, I can’t help but know it’s true. What would you do if I did… This?” He cocked his fingers inside you, pressing up towards your belly, and you cried out as a bolt of lightning stuck your belly and cunt.

“Fuck!” you cried, and Paul smiled wickedly down at you. “Paul, oh my God—”

“I know, pet, I know,” Paul whispered, shushing you and your whining. “It feels so good, doesn’t it?”

“More,” you choked out, and Paul, again without warning, withdrew his fingers from you. You felt almost sick at the emptiness that invaded your body, but, before you could even complain, Paul was undoing the buttons on his pants.

“I’ll give you more,” Paul told you. “Don’t worry, darling, more is coming.”

Your skin thrummed with excitement and arousal, and you slid yourself further up the bed carefully. Paul smiled at you, his eyes wide and blown-out, and he climbed up onto the bed to chase after you. His pants halfway unbuttoned, he grabbed your wrists and pinned them to the bed, and you giggled at his playfulness.

“Open your legs,” Paul told you. One of his hands stayed on your wrist, but the other went down to his pants, finishing up with the buttons. You did as he instructed, parting your legs open wide for him, and he sighed at the sight of your weeping cunt. “So wet. My little wife is so wet for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasped. If it were anybody else, you would hate being spoken to that way, but something about Paul in that moment permitted him to speak to you in any way he pleased. “Oh, Paul, please—”

Paul shushed you gently, and he abandoned his pants, now fully open and allowing you a peak of the coarse hair inside, in order to grab your thighs. He pulled your legs up, pressing your knees close to your ears, and his arms settled in the crook of your legs, holding you there and open for him. “Good girl,” he whispered, and you winced at the pull on your tendons and muscles.

All pain was forgotten, though, when Paul pulled out his cock. You had never seen a man’s cock before, and your husband’s was beautiful, thick and cut, flushed dark red with arousal. He didn’t say anything as he touched the burning head of his cock to your open hole, and his eyes connected with yours for a moment.”It might hurt,” he whispered.

“I can take it,” you told him.

Paul nodded, and your chest flushed warm at his words. He was concerned about you. As angry as he had started, he had softened his demeanor for you. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he told you, and he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your mouth. It wasn’t like the angry kisses from earlier, it was softer, no tongue and no hot breath. Maybe he did care after all.

Finally, Paul pushed himself into you, sliding in easily with your slick arousal, and the stretch and burn made you whimper in pain. Paul shushed you, putting another soft kiss on your lips, and he whispered, “Give it a moment, it’ll feel better soon.”

“Paul,” you whined, and your hands went up to grasp his short curls. Your breaths came rapidly as he sank further into you, and you moaned softly at the exquisite feeling of him so deep inside you. It was something truly beautiful, and you pulled at his hair.

That didn’t seem to deter him at all, in fact, it seemed to spur him on. “Good, good,” he whispered. “Taking me so well… I was right, darling; you do look beautiful on your back.”

“You—” you started, mildly annoyed that he was now confirming a theory that angered you so, but his but his hands grasped at your hips and he slowly began to properly fuck you. His thrusts were shallow at first, getting you used to the feeling, and every press inside you made you moan. “Paul, fuck.”

“You’re so fucking tight,” Paul hissed. “God, you feel like heaven.”

“Fuck me,” you whispered, pulling him into a frenzied kiss. “Please, husband, please—”

“I am, pet,” Paul told you, and he snapped his hips quickly into you, filling you with him in a single moment. You threw your head back, moaning, and Paul’s tongue came out to touch his teeth. “You wanted it, you’ll get it.”

He quickly gained a rhythm, fucking you hard enough for whole body to shift with each thrust. His hands came to rest by your head, gripping the fur blanket, and he bared his teeth as he fucked you fast.

You could feel every inch of him inside you, burying deep in your body, and you whimpered and cried as his pace became relentless. He was chasing his own orgasm, you knew it, and you wondered if he would even care for you. That didn’t seem likely, but you were too distracted to properly ask him.

However, it seemed as if he could read your mind, because his hand came from your hip and settled above your cunt, and his thumb expertly touched a nerve on you. The feeling of it made your back arch as much as possible in your position, and you cried out his name. “Paul!” you mewled, and he grinned wickedly. “Oh my God, what—”

“You really know nothing about sex, do you?” Paul asked. “Oh, my sweet little whore, your head is so empty. So’s your cunt, but I can fix that.”

His finger played with your sensitive nerve as he fucked you, drawing you closer and closer still to your release. You knew little about sex, he was right, but you knew enough to be sure that he was going to make you cum quickly. “Paul,” you whimpered out, and you grabbed at the bedsheets as his thrusts became quicker than before, hitting home inside you and making lightning strike your whole body. “I’m close,” you told him, and the prince nodded.

“I can feel it,” Paul told you, and your face burned. “Your cunt is getting tighter than before… Didn’t know that was possible.” He huffed out his breaths, his cheeks red with exertion, but his eyes were blown wide, and he looked truly beautiful.

“You look good like this,” you told him, your hands lifting to tangle in his hair. “M-Maybe I look good on my back, and you look good above me.”

“Aren’t we a pair?” Paul chuckled. “Fuck, are you going to let me breed you? You’re going to give me my son?” You nodded, and Paul gave you that same wicked smile from before. “Good,” he whispered. “You’re mine.”He shoved himself deep inside you, so deep that you could feel it in your throat, and you moaned at him. You couldn’t tell whether you were moaning in pain or pleasure, but it all felt the same. “Right, darling? You’re mine, nobody else’s.”

“I’m yours,” you assured him, and Paul made a noise, almost like a growl of sorts, right into your neck.

“Fuck,” Paul whispered. He rutted deep into you, drawing those pained moans from you once more, and his hands came up to grab your ankles. Your legs were still wide open to fit him, and he held onto your ankles as he fucked you, long and hard. “You’re mine, you’re mine… Nobody else’s, just mine… All mine…”

Before you knew it, the lightning bolts in your belly became too much, and you grabbed at Paul’s messy hair as you bit your lip hard, hard enough to taste blood. “P-Paul…” you managed to mumble, and one more fuck into you had you unraveling. Your heartbeat was wild in your chest as heat flooded your whole body, starting in your curled toes until it reached your head. Your moans turned into sobs as he continued to fuck you through your release, the new wetness adding lewd volume to his fucks.

“Good girl,” Paul whispered once your cries died down, and your hips lifted and shook as he fucked you harder still. “You’re going to take my cum, you’ll give me a son… Fuck…” He seemed like he was talking more to himself than to you, reassuring himself that you would do all of those things, just as you promised, and you tugged him by his hair down to you. You kissed him softly, both of your mouths slick with spit, but you didn’t accept his tongue when he tried.

“I’ll give you everything you want,” you whispered. “Everything. I promise.”

Paul’s moan was wrecked and broken as he came, fucking his release deep inside you, and you held him tight as his fucking slowed down to a stop. He was panting, as were you, and you giggled just a bit as you wiped at sweat that hung on his forehead. He carefully pulled himself from you, hissing a bit with the assured oversensitivity of his cock, and he rolled off of you to lay on his back on the bed. Your hands shook as you helped undress him, and he smiled softly at you, exhausted, as his own hands aided you in your efforts.

Paul’s chest was slick with sweat as you settled your head over his heart, and you listened to his steady heartbeat. He sighed heavily, but you knew that it wasn’t a sigh of exhaustion. He had something he needed to say.

“I apologize for getting angry with you before,” Paul said softly, his finger lightly grazing over your bare back. “I only… My first marriage is not an easy topic for me.”

“Tell me,” you whispered. “What happened to make you so bitter, my love?”

“My first wife,” he began softly. “She was… Everything. She was beautiful, she was kind… You remind me of her. But she was always very close with my close friend, Andrei. I never thought anything of it, but apparently everybody else did, because they all saw something I didn’t. Natalia became pregnant, and I was… Happy. So happy. I was so ready to be a father, but it…” He paused, his back teeth clenching with restraint. “It wasn’t meant to be. He was born, but Natalia did not survive the encounter, and neither did… Neither did my son. And, as I am mourning, not two weeks, my mother tells me to read Natalia’s letters, and that I would find evidence of her having an affair with Andrei. My mother even said that my child was Andrei’s. But I know he was mine. I feel it in my chest that the boy was mine.”

Your heart sank into your stomach as you listened, and you pressed a gentle kiss to Paul’s chest, just over his racing heart. Suddenly, everything made sense. The anger, the possessiveness; he was hurt. “And those documents you were reading,” you began softly. “At your desk…”

Paul shook his head. “Natalia’s letters, proving my mother right,” he said. “I wish that I were kinder to you earlier. But I was angry from reading, and you were defying me, and I… I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.”

“I understand,” you told him. “It’s alright—”

“No, it isn’t,” Paul said. “The way I spoke to you, no man should speak to his wife that way. I apologize for it. I will do better. I have to.”

“You will,” you reassured him. “You will do much better, and our son will be born with you at my side.”

Paul nodded, and he buried a kiss in your sweaty and messy hair. “Stay with me tonight?” he whispered.

“I would love nothing more.”

#prince paul #prince paul x reader #joseph quinn #joseph quinn x reader #catherine the great #also yes the title is from great comet what about it #listening to obscene levels of this musical as i write #*my writing

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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.”

JQ taglist for the babes; @ceriseheaven @indouloureux @stiegasaw @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @starbxcks @morganamoonstone @ramona-thorns @gvtosbith @poppy-metal @munsonswhore86 @munsonlov3r @lunatictardis @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-tittie @anaisweird @cerinthussulpicia @cinnamoncunt @thincrusttheworks @manicpixiedreamcurl @therosietoesy @fanficappreciationblog @thicksexxualtension @tvserie-s-world @sharp-and-swift @dadsbongos @2clones-1kamino @edsforehead @chcolateeyelver

#Prince Paul #prince paul x you #prince paul x reader #prince paul x oc #prince paul fanfiction #prince paul smut #joseph quinn #prince paul catherine the great #catherine the great 2019 #prince paul imagine #prince paul fanfic #and prince paul #smutty #so much smut #so much hatefucking

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