#joseph quinn prince paul | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pedgito · 2 years ago

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i have a request 🫣 prince paul having an affair with his chamber maid, and he’s extra mean and arrogant because she’s the help. maybe it starts out with him requesting (demanding) she wear skimpier clothes in his presence and it just escalates from there 👀

author’s note: honestly never forgiving you for this. <3

cw: 18+ (minors dni) period typical drama (you don’t need to have seen the show to understand), chambermaid!reader, lots of degrading (not in a nice way), adultery/infidelity, mentions of reader being infertile, lots of tension, bratty!paul (he’s such an ass), oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, power imbalance, if i missed anything lmk!

word count: 5.5k

He’s not quite the man you expect at first glance. Paul, that is. His mother was an atrocious being, soft for show and nothing but hard edges, laced with ill-intent at every turn, opportunity—every chance she had, she was betraying the semblance of trust she had built.

And maybe that was her plan after all, the reason why she rules the way she did—but people talked and you heard every bit of it.

No one cared for chambermaids, especially not the one addressed to a tantrum prone young prince who despite his misfortunes still had the attitude and personality of a spoilt-child, all condescending tone and disregard for basic human decency.

But, it’s your normal—and it’s easy to fall into that routine, his voice is like white noise as you work, if he had the nerve to notice you. He’s often caught up in his own thoughts, scowl on his face as he brushes past you with no acknowledgment, not that you expect it. He’s cold at first, brisker—more than he has been lately, but your place was recognized.

Paul didn’t have the time to talk to the likes of you.

Yet, that’s exactly why he did—though, it wasn’t without your own valiant effort.

The first time it happens you almost jump out of your skin, pressing fresh sheets on his bedside chair to redress his bed, his pouting figure perched at the end, head bowed.

“Can you believe her?” He asks, voice soft but tense. You turn back, thinking he’s talking to someone—anyone but you.

There’s no one.

So, you say, “She’s quite evil, isn’t she?”

It’s a solid enough response to get a reaction out of him, even if it’s barely noticeable. His shoulders shake with the chuckle he holds back.

“She’d have your head if she was to hear that,” Paul points out, tipping his head back over his shoulder, eyes still downturned toward his floor, “careful what you say.”

“Sir, I need to change your bedding,” You urged, hands gripping the silk duvet, destined to rip that blanket away whether he moved or not, “please?” You ask softly and he’s standing silently, rounding the bed to reach for the gold plated goblet at his bedside, sipping what you could only assume was a fruitful, fancy wine from their large collection.

He watches silently, intently as you rip the old sheets away and replace them with new ones, body stretching over the bed as you fold in the corners, breasts pushed tight against the fabric and hips peeking out through the stiffly tailored dress, the itchy material driving you crazy every day.

His lips are perched on the rim, dark eyes glaring from a distance as you glance up at him briefly, met with his heated stare. You blush slightly—no man has ever looked at you in such a way.

You clear your throat quietly, flipping the blanket over the sheets and smoothing it out until it’s pristine—and you almost make it out without consequences or crude commentary.

“Lose the dress next time,” Paul orders, “it’s unbecoming of you.”

“Pardon?” You ask shakily, dirty fabric balled up and held tight against your chest, “Sir—er, Prince Paul, your majesty…I don’t think that is appropriate.”

“You’re my chambermaid,” His expression changes quickly, speaking through clenched teeth, “you do as you’re told.”

You nod obediently, though slow.

“Only here,” He clarifies, “Close the door from now on, only come at night—do you understand?”

You nod.

“Good,” His face changed on a dime, softening slightly as he stepped toward you, ringed fingers clinging against the metal of his cup as he tilted it toward you, pressing it against your lips, “drink.”

You’ve never tasted alcohol, not allowed those luxuries. It’s bitter as it hits your tongue, the tartness of the wine causing you to grimace slightly, lips stained a deep red as your tongue peeks out when Paul pulls the goblet away.

“Obedient,” He notes with amusement, snorting softly through his nose, “that is…useful.”

He doesn’t elaborate, nodding for you to leave as his expression hardens again, eyebrows drawn together tight.

“Mutter off,” He grumbles, “and do as you’re told.”

You shouldn’t have expected anything less from him, the situation souring in a matter of seconds as you walked away quickly, disappearing down a dark hall to rid yourself of the dirty laundry, avoiding the judging gaze of the consort as they walked by, ducking your head in a effort to hide in plain sight.

Before that encounter, Paul hid himself away after the death of his first wife and child—and while his wife had been horribly unfaithful, you could never wish that on anymore. Paul constantly grumbled about having a child to serve the purpose that his mother wanted, he’d finally accomplished it and then it was being swept out from under him in such a brutal manner.

It didn’t soften the blow of infedelity any less, or that he’d lost his son, a potential heir to his throne.

And for a while you barely see him, either tucked up under his covers and refusing to let you inside, or gone on some task with his army of men—you couldn’t be bothered to care.

You were poor, lowly, at the bottom of the pecking order and never destined step foot outside of this place, that much was obvious. It’s taught you to be mindful and overly observant—you knew Paul’s wife was cheating on him from the beginning, small inclinations that things were arye, but it wasn’t fully confirmed until you walked into a vacant room to his unfaithful wife being fucked by his bestfriend. As horrible as Paul may be, you weren’t sure he deserved that.

The period between then and now is tense, but manageable. You’ve got plenty of duties to keep yourself busy outside of his room, helping set tables for one of the many extravagant parties the council had weekly, tidying up the main rooms and helping greet guests from time to time. You were always presentable, clean, hair pulled back in a loose bun and any strays tucked behind your ear. It added an extra softness to your face, bare of any makeup—Catherine always commented on how beautiful you were, too pretty to be in the position you were now. You could never tell if she was lying or not, her first nature is always to make connections first and destroy them later.

She wastes no time in finding Paul a new wife, much to his initial dismay. He becomes rebellious during the time before, not that he wasn’t already the cause of most issues, but you quickly become used to it.

You find yourself picking up two pairs of clothes rather than one, slipping into his bedroom in the early mornings while he’s still tucked under the duvet, a naked, nameless woman wrapped around him and much less covered.

His mother would have a stroke if she knew he was finding sexual comfort in the likes of paid sex rather than putting his efforts forth to find an acceptable replacement, someone who is fertile and willing to submit.

And you can always slip in and out without being noticed, returning at night to finish up the more tedious and difficult tasks, avoiding conversation and his eyes at all costs.

Until you walk into an unfortunate situation one night, Paul buried in the cunt of a woman who’s much too loud, his pale legs tensing with every rough thrust of his hips—and sex wasn’t foreign, but it was private. It was a private, sacred act that should be kept between the two parties, but for Paul, that’s not the case.

He hears the door creak open, your eyes wide as he glances back at you, a deep smirk on his face.

His clothes are clutched to your chest along with his necessities for his bath—you’d normally start it for him by now, but you’re frozen, eyes stuck on the sight before you.

“She’s watching,” Paul says to the woman quietly and she moans softly in response, “—do not let me stop you,” Paul says, voice labored slightly as he wraps his hands around her thighs, pulling her impossibly more flush, his body blushing a bright shade of red, similar to the fake blush you patted on most morning as you helped him dress—though this, it’s so much better, “I’m nearly done.”

Your mouth is slightly agape, tongue feeling dry as you try to regain your composure, shaking your head as you slip past—the noises grow louder, heavier, and you quickly shut the bathroom door out of fear you might be caught again, eyes drawing toward him without meaning to.

You draw the bath, scolding hot as he liked and dip your fingers in to test the temperature, shaking the water from your fingertips as the door creaks open.

He’s still naked, unashamed as he walks toward you. It wasn’t the first time you’ve seen Paul naked, but it feels different. He’s not as showy, and more often than not he’ll shove you away, order you to busy yourself as he washes up—he doesn’t say a word this time, lifting his legs to step into the tub, softening cock bouncing against his thigh. He’s large, girthy and uncut. You’ve never heard many of the women talk about him in such a manner, so it comes as a surprise the first time you see it. It’s nothing like the older men you’ve seen undressing from their loins during your rounds—he’s younger, leaner, and oozing with an unbelievable confidence.

You still barely spoke to him then, handing over the washcloth and soap silently as you walked about, filling up his glass with the alcohol he usually requested; an awful tasting red wine that was much more bitter than it was sweet.

It was quite poetic, actually. It represented Paul perfectly.

His eyes drag up your coveted figure as he reaches for the glasses, stopping on your face, cheeks hot from the stuffy temperature of the room.

“Stay,” He says fiercely, catching you by surprise, “you can help, be of use finally.”

When he turns to sip and sit the drink down you roll your eyes, fist clenching tightly.

“Do you mind?” He asks, holding up the soaked washcloth toward you.

“Your majesty…you want me to bathe you?” You ask slowly, carefully.

“Are you hard of hearing or something?” He asks coarsely, teeth biting through his words as he bared them to you.

It was hard to know what would set Paul off, even the littlest things a trigger.

“No, no.” You reply softly, not bothering to finish your sentence as you squeezed the washcloth over his back, his shoulders stretching slightly as he rolled them, lifting his arms up on the edge of the tub.

“Not quite used to that?” Paul asks curiously, tone softer now.

“Sir, I’m not sure what you’re referring to—“

“No use being coy.” He notes, looking back at your briefly.

You weren’t nearly as timid as he assumed you were, not in the slightest. But, you appreciated the life you had, that you were living, and you weren’t going to jeopardize that by letting your sharp mouth get the better of you.

“Not necessarily, no.” You tell him honestly, “I’ve caught Potemkin in some…strange situations, but I usually excuse myself quickly—“ Paul leans back slightly to give you access to his chest, the wetness of his hair dampening your dress, “sex is private, s’not meant to be intruded on.”

Paul hums a soft noise, eyes linger over your body as you stretch and rub at his chest with the soap, smoothing out the washcloth over his skin before your hand dips under the water, reaching the soft skin of his stomach.

“You’re much too shy,” Paul teases, “you cannot be that way here, not with who I am—with who my mother is.”

“I do my duties and stay in my room, your majesty. It is important, also, to be mindful of where you stick your nose.”

It earns a laugh from him, genuine and unrestrained. His wet fingers loop around your wrist as it resurfaces from the water, and he’s pushing your sleeve up slightly, wetting the fabric.

“I tend to enjoy it,” Paul admits, “what a better way to remind people of what’s rightfully mine, yes?”

You snort at that, glancing down at him. Every signal in your brain is telling you to shut up, but your mouth moves anyway.

“Mmm, I assume paying for it also translates over to it being your property, correct?” He scoffs lightly, not as angry as you were expecting, but his grip tightens.

“Correct,” He seethes, tilting his chin up daringly, dragging you closer abruptly while your hands shoot out to catch yourself, gasping sharply as his face is mere inches from your own now, “—need I remind you that you are also my property?”

“I’m well aware, your majesty.” You bite back, “That does not allow you access to my body if you wish to lose a limb—“

“A delicate thing like you—“

You shake your head slowly, the words dying on his tongue.

“If you would like to keep fucking women in your bed, or at all, I would be careful with your next few words, sir.”

Paul smirks slightly, pushing you away with ease.

“I never said anything about force, you know,” He hints at, “I’m not that evil, not in that sense, at least.”

“As you shouldn’t be,” You retort, “Are we done here?”

Paul stands as you reach for the weak excuse for towel, cock resting proud against his stomach as both of his hands cup himself, allowing himself some decency—though it’s blatantly obvious.

You’re not sure whether to be flattered or offended, handing the towel off silently and dragging your feet toward the door.

“You can leave, yes—“ He hesitates for a moment, and your eyebrows draw together in confusion.

“Is everything okay, your majesty?”

Paul smirks darkly, eyes drifting away from you.

“Just a thought—I shall keep it to myself,” Paul says cryptically, “—‘less I risk losing an appendage as promised.”

Your laugh curtly, a subtle smile creeping onto your own face.

“You’re very smart, sir.” You tease.

“If only my mother would think as such,” He responds bitterly, mood shifting quickly, “—leave me, busy yourself.”

It’s not as harsh, but you don’t linger any longer than needed.

It’s the first time you manage to have a semi-normal conversation with Paul—though, nothing was ever conventional with him.

He remarried a few months after the encounter in the bath, your small conversations coming to an abrupt stop, his demeanor flat and angry more often than not.

No more random ladies in his bed, no more late nights perched on his desk table letting him ramble on about how much he hated his mother—you didn’t exist anymore.

He’s being the good little boy his mother asked him to be and promises her another heir, hoping this one holds up. And his wife seems kind-hearted at first, but that quickly sours.

It’s how you were in the position you were now, in his chambers stripped down to nearly nothing, as he’d asked, and going on about your business as if nothing was different. You didn’t have the luxury to question Paul’s orders, being as obedient as you could—as you were always taught to be.

He’d been angry the night before, about his mother but…something else. It lingered, you didn’t ask, and now it was itching at your mind, bugging you to no end.

Paul catches you when you’re bent over to grab a piece of stray stationary that had fell to the floor, making a noise you can’t decipher before speaking.

“Good,” He chide, “you listen.”

You weren’t sure what Paul was capable of, truly—and you didn’t want to find out. Because being the spawn of his mother, those tendencies were there at the surface, if not already exposed.

You turn slowly, breasts pressed together in the thin bra, underwear clinging to your hips and you curtsy slightly.

“Your excellency.”

You were laying it on thick, wondering what his angle was.

Paul examines the room carefully, stumbling a bit as he walks.

Drunk. He was drunk.

Not so much that he couldn’t speak or think for himself, but he seemed looser, less perturbed. His face was flush from the effects of the alcohol as he slipped his glass up along a random shelf.

“Fresh linens—you’ve even got my outfits lined up for the ceremony tomorrow,” His eyebrows quirks up interest, “you have been very busy.”

“It is just my job, sir.” You explain softly, hands clasped in front of you tightly, the cold draft in the room making you shiver.

Paul approaches slowly, plucking the stray paper from the desk and examining it, “Seems someone has been rummaging through my belongings again.”

You freeze, eyes tracking his every movement with regret, knowing that you were likely to blame—it could be a hit this time, a few stinging words and a night without a meal, you braced for impact.

“Do you women really think of yourself as the smarter species?” Paul asks, curiously but his voice is laced with an edge, a motive. “That us men are that dim.”

“Uh—“ You start quietly, stammering for the right words.

“She’s fucking the cook, you know.” Paul drops on you, making everything click in one fleeting moment. “The help. Like you.”

You bow your head, your normal snarky response subdued for the moment.

“She’s been writing letters, just the same as the other filthy fuckin’ whore I used to be bethrothed to.” The smell of liquor was strong as it fell from his breath, but his eyes still connected with you, flicking with life.

He always looked sad, small in comparison to most of the royals despite his attitude and harsh manner of dealing with things and people and really anything that bothered him. He was just as vile as he was kind—most of it being an act.

You knew he wasn’t being sweet to you out of the goodness of his heart, he had reasons. He was calculated in the most deceiving ways.

“How—how do you know?” You ask softly.

Paul huffs a small laugh, dropping the paper back onto the desk and allowing his other to trail up your front, finger wrapping around the material that joined your breasts together—if he pulled hard enough it would snap, the weak fabric no match against his strength.

“Caught them.” He spits out viciously, plump lips pouting around the words as he tugs you toward him, you move easily.

You weren’t scared of Paul—that was never the case. But, you knew it wasn’t smart to go against his actions, the things that he wanted. Because really, you weren’t sure how badly you wanted them either, until his fingertips were touching your skin, his eyes roaming your nearly naked frame.

“But sir, she’s—“

“With my child.” He answers for you, pausing for a moment to catch the stutter in your breath, his hand smoothing down over your stomach, your skin ice cold underneath his scolding touch. “No more sir, or your majesty—or whatever bullshit they teach you to say to me.”

You nod jerkily, head dipping down to watch his fingers trailer further and further, breath quickening with every movement.

“Considering my first son was not even my son, I shouldn’t be surprised,” Paul says lowly, his hand cupping your cunt light, the delicate touch of his fingertips tracing along the seam of your underwear, “it seems no woman can understand the concept of faithfulness.”

And you had to give him that—as much of a tyrant he could, he’d never tried to be unfaithful in his relationships. He had his indulges during those long, lonely in between periods, but never during.

Yet, here he was. A married man, touching you in ways that felt…too good. He was no different than his wife, but maybe that’s what he wanted.

“I must admit you are much prettier than the previous help, solnishko.” His free hand reaches up to tilt your chin up confidently, eyes connecting with him surrounded by an intensity you haven’t felt before. “I would much like to keep you around.”

“Unless I disobey,” You counter softly, “you would not hesitate to order my beheading, yes?”

Paul shrugs carelessly, “You wouldn’t be the first, I can assure you it would not be the last.”

His thumb rubs over your chin, rising to your lip, saliva wetting his finger as it stilled there, giving him a glimpse of your clenched teeth, not realizing your fist had been curled so tight at your sides until he’s speaking again.

“Relax,” He comforts, though it’s nothing but a mockery, “I would not hurt you, not unless I’m given reason.”

Your eyes squint slightly, narrowing on his bluff.

“Say it,” He orders, “say what is on your mind.”

“You are a scared boy,” You challenge, his demeanor faltering for a half-second before he recovers, “all talk and nothing else.”

The gentle hand on your face quickly turns to stone, slipping around your throat in warning, squeezing lightly. Your eyes close, trying to ignore how unbothered you are.

It wasn’t the first time your life has been threatened, it was all old news.

His fingers move quickly, slipping under your panties to touch bare skin. Paul snickers evilly at the wetness pooling between your folds, the soft noise your throat makes when his finger drags through—warm and thick.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Paul says smugly, “how long?”

“I’m afraid I might need you to elaborate, sir.”

The squeeze is light, but tense. A warning to your words.

“Paul,” You correct yourself quickly, “I apologize—old habits.”

“How long have you wanted this?” He asks slowly, tongue and teeth enunciating every word like he’s spitting venom at you.

You couldn’t give him a period of time, because there wasn’t one. The attraction was a surprise to yourself, from the moment he touched you after stepping into the room, you knew. You could handle the not so subtle glances he took, the teasing words and throw them right back—but you both had never crossed this line. Sure, Paul could be coarse and suggestive more often than not, but part of him never expected you to follow through on his commands, even if it meant your life.

He’s intrigued by you, enthralled. He hates himself for it more than he cares to admit. But, all good things did come in moderation.

“Must you ruin the mystery of it all?” You retort playfully, eyes lighting up as he tilts his head, trying to decipher the growing smirk on your face. “May I ask you a question, your—er, Paul?”

“So long as you choose your words wisely.”

“Why ask me here in such a state?” You ask, “If the others knew—if they found out, you would surely face consequences yourself.”

“I won’t,” He forces out through clenched teeth, jaw flexing underneath the skin, “this stays here, understood?”

“What exactly is this?”

He can see the way you’re relaxing under his hold, more comfortable speaking to him in such a tone. He’s used to being talked down upon, constantly disregarded—never challenged.

“Madam, whatever I want it to be.” He smiles, sickeningly sweet, proving his point by dipping a finger into your entrance.

You gasp softly, back hitting the edge of the bed as he maneuvers you the short distance there.

“But, your wife—“ You interrupted in a hushed tone, his mouth hanging open slightly as he glared up at you, “how does this make anything better?”

“Not better, even.”

You nod obediently, moaning softly at the loss of contact as he stands, wiping his hand along the front of his trousers.

“Undress yourself.” He orders, seating himself on the edge of the bed as you turn, switching positions with him.

Your eyes glance toward the door briefly, the light from the moon shining in through the stained glass, the candlelight dim—if anyone walked by, they would assume Paul was sleeping, but behind closed doors…it made your heart skip a beat in anticipation, excitement even.

It was reckless, but you didn’t care.

Paul unbuttons his trousers swiftly, already down to a few layers rather than his several, regal waistcoat and all—it was just his loose white shirt and a faded pair of tan pants that cuffed at his ankles.

He’s not shy in the slightest, cock already half-hard as he palms himself, squeezing lightly at his balls before fisting himself tightly, raising a foot up on the bed frame to steady him, free hand coming to rest beside him.

Your bra goes first, loose straps falling down your shoulders with no resistance, pulling at the string holding the material together tied behind your back. The cold air has the soft buds of your nipples hardening instantly, skin prickled with goosebumps. Paul makes an appreciative noise, thumb rubbing at the thick head of his cock, the uncut skin allowing for an easy slide as he works up a harsh rhythm, cheeks flushed an even deeper red than earlier—there’s more than just alcohol affecting his system.

He doesn’t speak a word, only nodding his head to urge you further, slipping your underwear down and beyond your ankles quickly.

“You are—“ His voice catches, grunt slipping past his lips, “divine.”

You smile slightly, a surge of pride rushing through your body at the sight of him, clearly unhinged by you.

“Would you like your cock sucked?” You ask bluntly, adding the endearment for extra measure. “Sir.”

Paul grins widely, reaching forward to tug you by your wrist, “Get over here.” He urges, settling to your knees impatiently, never one for niceties.

But, you didn’t need that. You didn’t expect it from him.

“How do you like it?” You ask curiously, nudging his hand away to replace it with your own, eyes watching the small, glistening bed of precum that leaked from the tip.

“I’m sure you’ve sucked a cock or two before.”

“I’m asking you,” You challenge, “What do you like?”

“Control,” He answers quickly, without hesitation, “going to let me fuck your mouth, milaya?”

The softness of the word makes you smile, though it’s subtle.

“As you wish, your excellency.”

He hates the terms, the formality of it, but it only eggs you on further. He was still Paul in your eyes, but this was easier. It kept a level of disconnection you need.

His hand roots into your hair roughly, gripping a decent chunk before pulling you forward, his large hand enveloping your own to rub the head of his cock against your lips.

“Open,” He orders, pressing your mouth open, “further—-there, good.”

You moan at the guidance of his hand along your jaw as he presses himself further into your mouth, “I know,” He soothes, “it’s much larger than what you’re used to, isn’t it?”

And he was, by far—but you’re also not exactly inclined to say yes, not allowing another boost to his ever growing ego.

You moan softly, eyes falling shut when the head of his cock nudges against the back of your throat, breathing deeply through your nose as he watches, waiting for you to pull away.

It never comes.

You can see the burning flames of fire in his pupils, deep set behind those wide brown eyes. He’s speechless, for once.

He pulls you back harshly, allowing you a small gasp of air as the corners of your mouth quirk up in amusement.

“Does that answer your question?” You say teasingly, a mocking need to your tone that Paul has never heard before. But, he can’t be bothered to reprimand you, too busy wallowing in his own desperate need for pleasure, release—human connection, even.

Paul growls low through closed lips, pressing his cock back inside your mouth with ease, the warm, flat of your tongue running along the underside of it, a faint taste of his cum rendering you thoughtless.

It’s been long, far too long.

And you’d do just about anything for a moment of blissful peace, drowning in your own arousal.

His thrusts are pointed, lacking the delicate touch you’re used to, but it’s everything you need, swatting his hand away finally to cover what your mouth couldn’t possibly reach, his other still firmly fisted in your hair. It had to be a mess now, pulled from its bun and glowing over your shoulders.

Paul wasn’t trying his best to stay quiet either, groaning a flurry of obscenities above your head—“Fuckfuck—need to have you,” He begs, “I will not finish this night off without knowing every piece of you, darling.”

He pulls you away suddenly, lips flushed and covered in spit.

“Maybe I’ll make my mother happier with another heir,” He jokes lightly, pulling you to your feet, shoving you promptly onto the edge of the bed until you’re settled on your back, ass flush with his hips, the hard ridge of his cock pressing against your thigh, “—it’s only a joke, you may laugh.”

“I am unable to bare children, Paul.” You tell him openly, “Why do you think I have this job? Because I enjoy it?”

His fingers slip over your cunt wordlessly, pressing into you slowly. Two fingers instead of one, but the stretch is welcomed.

“What a shame,” He comments quietly, your breasts bouncing slightly bad your gripped the sheets beside your head, hips rocking with the steady movement of his fingers, “wish there were more help like you.”

“So you could fuck them, your majesty?” You retort.

It strikes a nerve, his cock replacing his fingers rather quickly, without warning. You gasp ruggedly, hand reaching out to grasp at his wrist, his hands smoothing over the tops of your thighs to pull you close, his brows drawn together in concentration, short blonde curls stick to his forehead.

“Watch your mouth.” He warns, eyes darkening with his words.

“Or what?”

You must’ve had a death wish, but Paul can’t even be bothered to act upset.

“I assure you, you do not want to find out.”

And with that, Paul swats your hand away, his own circling around the backs of your thighs to push them higher, his eyes dragging toward the point of connection, and you’re gripping him better than anyone he’s ever had, the warmth like a vice as he grunts, sharp thrusts producing the loud slaps of skin against skin mixed with your own desperate moans.

Paul doesn’t try to quiet you, only spurring him further into madness.

“Just as fucking mouthy as I thought,” He tells you, “why must you challenge me so much?”

“It’s—it’s,” You stammer, his hand muffling out the scream that threatened to escape, his eyes examining you until his thrusts slow slightly, allowing you to continue, “You like it too, I can see it.”

“So what?” He asks redundantly, breath labored, “Does that make you special?”

You reach for his white tunic, thighs widening to pull yourself upright, forcing him even deeper inside you. He watches you intently, your face stopping a few inches from his.

“You tell me, sir.”

“Paul,” He tells you, eyes rolling back as you squeeze yourself around him, the hand not busied with his shirt wrapping over his shoulder, pulling him to you, “say my name.”

“Paul,” You relent, adding a dangerous comment to hopefully spur him further into his growing addiction for you, “you shall be king soon, yes?”

He nods absently, his mouth reaching for you, tilting your head up to give him access to your neck, feeling that mouth to mouth might be too far, despite your current situation.

“Then fuck me like one.”

There’s a noise that settles in his throat, deep and suffocated as he grips the long tresses of your hair, pulling it taught as he fucked into you wildly, “You are dangerous, milaya.”

“I know,” You smirk viciously, head dipping down until your eyes connect, “—so come inside me. I will walk around the halls and no one will know, it will be our secret, sir.”

His face buried into your neck, one hand gripping at your thigh painfully tight as he slips one between you both, drifting over your clit gently, the small touch igniting a spark inside you.

It’s never something most men paid attention to, or yourself even, to busy with your duties to allow time like this to yourself—it doesn’t take much, a few quick, precise circles before your clenching around him tight, forcing him into his own orgasm, his teeth peeking out to bite against the skin of your neck softly, his groans muffled by the action.

There’s a moment of calm that washes over, Paul’s hips moving slowly as he comes back down, removing himself from you just as gently.

“Secrets.” He corrects. “I will never be done with you.”

You laugh softly, tilting your chin up dangerously close, lips barely grazing his own.

“I never asked you to be, milaya.” You retort, repeating his earlier term of endearment.

“Tell me,” He starts, eyes raking down your figure and back to your face, “do you understand Russian?”

You nod shyly.

“You are going to get me in trouble, my little darling.”

If only he knew how right he was.

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#joseph quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn x reader #prince paul x reader #prince paul #prince paul x you #joseph quinn smut #eddie munson smut #joseph quinn #eddie munson #my writing

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usedtobecooler · 2 years ago

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a crying shame | prince paul x fem!reader

Pairing | Prince Paul x Fem!Reader

Warnings | sexual content (18+ minors dni), DUBCON, power dynamics (royalty and the help), coercion, general nastiness, use of derogatory classist terms, unprotected piv sex, fingering f receiving, hair pulling, dirty talk, pussy/clit slapping, spanking, orgasm denial, breeding kink. also brief mentions of deceased characters.

Word Count | 3.2k

A/N | oh look... another new character to add to the evergrowing list. i know this fic won't be for everybody, but i felt it was maybe a different take on our petulant prince that we were yet to see.

It was a peaceful Tuesday afternoon, when it happened. Things had been… quiet, since your mistresses passing. Days were spent being kept busy with stripping linen, emptying wardrobes and general upkeep in her chambers. Though the Royals were not known to be fair, nice or even gracious – Lady Alexeievna was always a wonderful woman. She wasn’t like the others were, she was polite, kind and was somebody that once you could’ve even called a friend.

You were sad to hear of her and her unborn son's tragic and untimely deaths, even sadder when you were summoned to the quarters to strip off the soiled sheets and scrub the wooden bedframe clean. Since, you spent every day dreading how soon it would be before the spoilt, petulant, obnoxious Prince were to be wed again.

Catherine would waste no time, Natalia was barely cold before she was snapping fingers and ordering her army of minions to look for the next suitable woman to become the future Queen. It was to be only a matter of time before he were to be married and another woman would grace these four walls, hopefully with the same kindness Natalia had.

Paul had only ever entered this wing once, and that was in the days after the deaths. You dreaded him ever coming back – it was an unpleasant encounter, hard to watch from the sidelines with the other women, and you knew in your heart that anger was boiling in his heart, getting closer to bubbling out as time went on.

You’re busying yourself with folding Natalia’s array of dresses, though you can’t see why you’re bothering. Money aside, they would be burned in a wooden pit in the coming days along with any other trace of her, by the request of Catherine and her son.

The noise of doors being burst open down the halls pluck your interest, though your brows furrow when you realise they’re edging closer and closer. You brace yourself, awaiting the impending slam of the doors into the bedroom – which finally come seconds later. An angry looking figure storming through on the back of the harsh clatter.

"Your —” You stutter, panicking for a moment, struggling to compose yourself, with the sudden burst of the doors, your heart racing and hammering against your ribcage like a rabbit running from its stalker, “Your Majesty, I was not expecting you."

You curtsey, eyes down toward the floor, as the Prince makes haste of entering the room, like a man on a mission. He reels, anger etched all over his face, nose scrunched up in distaste, a deep red flush down to his chest.

He takes no notice of you, waving you off, gunning straight for his late wife's beauty table, rummaging around like a mad man in her jewellery box. He throws things around, the various gold pieces falling to the wooden floors with dull thuds. You cringe silently, aware of the price of such luxuries that he is willingly tarnishing, battering up and breaking.

You watch under half lidded eyes as he stomps around aimlessly, clearly whatever he was looking for was not within eyesight and he would have to ask the help. He was a man who simply did not waste his time or breath on those beneath him, unless it was his army. The older ladies of the chambers told you he was colours of his father, but mostly Catherine, as much as the woman would never admit to that.

Paul had not been the same since the morning his mother had dragged him into his deceased wife's chambers and exposed her illicit affair with the Count. Not only had his wife and son perished, but he had to bear the knowledge now of understanding she was a harlot and their son was most likely not his at all.

He was an idiot. Everybody knew about Natalia and her discrepancies, all of the help included. So he could wander around like a pompous, stuck up arsehole however he pleased. He was a laughing stock, despite how he wandered these halls with a turned up nose and a sense of entitlement.

"Go on then, woman. You're bound to know where it is." Paul seethes, snapping you out of your thoughts. You don't look him in the eye, instead setting your sights just past his left shoulder.

"May I ask what 'it' is, Your Majesty?" You ask, fanning your delicate fingers over the fronts of your velvet mauve-coloured skirts. You glance over slightly, realising Paul is simply in a sheer night shirt and tights, not a speckle of rouge on his cheeks and his natural, dirty blonde curls unruly atop his head.

He was pretty, you had to admit. Underneath all of the garish clothing and the wigs and the makeup. He was a good looking man, regardless of what the Queen had said. Though his petulant attitude diminished his physical beauty in an instant.

"Don't act smart with me, girl. You know what." Paul's nostrils flare, and you finally lock eyes with him, watching as the emotions swirl around in his pretty brown eyes. You must have a confused look etched on your face, because he rolls his eyes and scoffs, "The fucking wedding band."

You suck in a sharp breath, your nervousness starting to diminish and in its place anger begins to take hold, "Your Majesty, it was at the Queen's request that Lady Alexeievna be buried wearing that band. She was –"

"You took my mothers orders over my own?" He's close to you now, breath fanning across your face. He's looking at you like he wants to grab you by the throat and throw you across the room, and you wait on baited breath for the assault, by now you had grown accustomed to the handsy men in the palace, "Answer me."

"She is the Queen, Your Excellency. She would - she would've had me beheaded, had I not done as requested." Your voice waivers slightly, a wince escaping you when Paul's large hand comes out to grab at your cheeks, squishing them beneath his harsh grip – his gold rings bite into your soft skin, sure to leave behind marks in their wake. Your lips puff together under the pressure, breathing jagged as your nostrils flare in a desperate attempt to breathe.

"You work for me. For my wife. Not my fucking mother." Paul spits in your face, and your bosom heaves as you desperately try to suck in a breath. You whimper quietly, as his other hand comes out to grip at your corseted waist, thumb dancing lightly over the satin ribbons that tied you in properly, "Hmm, such pretty garments for a nobody. Is this where my money was going? Making the scum at the bottom look pretty by my wife's request?"

Paul shakes your head for good measure before he loosens his grip to allow you to breathe, to talk, "She was a kind woman, Your Majesty. She was good to all of us ladies." Your voice is quiet, nerves shot as he plucks at the ribbons on your corset, tugging them loose. Your breasts spill out once the pressure is released, your scratchy undergarments the only material left to keep your modesty.

Paul stalks around your body, fingers playing with the ties on the back of your skirt as he speaks, quiet yet dominant, so close you can feel his breath on your ear, “Peasants such as yourself shouldn’t wear such luxuries. Such fine fabrics are made for the upper class, and as beautiful as you are, darling — you’re the furthest thing from it.”

The skirt drops to the floor and you wince, mortified by what’s happening. You’re powerless to stop it, the Prince would have you hung for treason if you so much as attempted to stop him. You’d hate to think what he’d do if you uttered a word of what was about to happen, after.

“Please, Your Excellency. You don’t have to—“ Your words are cut short when he grips at your undershirt, exposing your tits to the cool air in the room and leaving you gasping. It’s terrifying to admit that you’re not as scared as you should be, as he slithers back around your body until you’re toe to toe, his wide eyes drinking in the soft curve of your breast, the peak of your nipples, hardened in the chill.

“My, my,” He muses, and you make to cover yourself up with your arms, but he grips at your wrists and tugs them back down to your sides, tutting as he does so, “I don’t think so, malyshka. You’ll do as I tell you to, hmm? Otherwise there will be consequences.”

And you almost scoff at the rude pet name. Almost. Yet you find your thighs clenching beneath your underskirt as he soaks in every single square inch of your skin with his pretty, awestruck eyes. He backs you towards the edge of the bed, hands releasing your wrists in favour of tugging at the last of your undergarments and you let him, minimal fuss or resistance. It’s embarrassing, the way he clouds your brain and makes your cunt gush wet when he’s forcing himself onto you under the premise of death if you refuse.

“I’ll make this easy on you, darling, I promise.” He soothes, once the remainders of your clothing are pooled at your feet. You know better than to wait for him to demand you to finish the job, so you toe your worn in pumps off and slide the bundle of fabrics across the hardwood flooring. He watches you the entire time, a smug smirk playing on his lips as you almost willingly strip for him. He grabs at your wide hips, eyeing them – and he doesn’t even need to speak. You know what he’s thinking.

Perfect child bearing hips. Clearly not a virgin. But unmarried. So a harlot it is.

He spins you around with this almost grotesque salacious grin on his face, one hand removing itself from your hip to instead splay in between your shoulder blades, pushing your upper body onto the bed. You’re face down, quiet, ass in the air, like he clearly wanted.

The next move the Prince takes is unexpected. The hand remaining on your hips begins to run deftly along your ass, fingertips tracing your skin softly – a complete juxtaposition from the harsh way he’d spoken to and handled you previously. His pointer and middle finger run along the seam of your cunt, dipping into your folds and causing a gasp to fall from your lips.

“I told you I’d make this easy on you, malyshka,” There’s his god awful, condescending tone again, and you want for it to make you feel sick but all it does is make your tummy brew with want, “You don’t get to come, though. If you do, I'll spank you so hard you’ll not be able to sit for a week.”

Paul emphasises his words with a tap to your cunt, his fingertips slapping your clit almost perfectly, and it elicits a quiet moan in return. He hums, tsking under his breath, before slipping two thick fingers into your pussy, taking you by surprise. You cry out, lifting up onto your toes, squealing as he sets a fast pace.

“Your soaked cunt could almost be proof you’re enjoying this, darling,” Paul’s voice is giddy as he crooks his fingers down, running the tips along your frontal wall until you’re pushing your hips back into his hand. He skates his other hand down your back to place just above the curve of your ass, pushing your hips down, a warning, “Act the brat and see what happens, malyshka.”

You can’t help it – your guts churn, a tingling in your belly as he marks his words, you almost want to act up, just to see what the punishment would be. Lust is overtaking your whole body, clearly, because every last bit of nerve and fear diminishes, “S-Sorry, Your Excellency,” Your voice is wet as you apologise, his relentless fingers sliding in and out of your slick walls sending you reeling.

Paul clearly appreciates that you aren’t enough of a brat to address him as anything but his title, even with his fingers buried deep in your pussy – he pushes the curve of his hard cock into the supple flesh of your ass, grunting a little at the slight bit of relief it provides, “You will be if you keep it up.”

You let yourself go limp, allowing the pleasure of his fingers sinking into you to overtake your senses. It feels nice, he’s not as harsh as he could be and he’s still pressing onto all the right spots, despite his warnings of not letting you come. His cool rings catch on your entrance, causing you to shudder, and a sick part of you almost wants him to slide them into you, too, shove his fingers in as deep as they can go.

In your pleasure, you don’t hear or feel him shuffling behind you to shove down his own underwear, not realising until his fingers slip out of you and leave a drool of your own juices trailing down to your mound. You stay quiet, awaiting the head of his cock catching on your cunt.

It happens faster than anticipated and you clench on instinct once the tip slides through the mess you’ve made, running up and down the seam of your pussy and catching on your clit, just enough to make you whine. Paul tuts at that, grips onto your hip tightly with his hand, the other gripping the base of his cock and he’s sliding in, the size of him catching you by surprise as he splits you open.

“Oh, god,” You wail, fingers gripping into the sheets tightly as he sinks into you in one swift motion, knocking the breath right out of you. He gives you no time to adjust, he pulls out and shoves back in just as quickly, as harsh. Your tight cunt sucks him in, stretching comfortably to the sheer size and thickness of his cock.

Paul winds a hand tight in your hair, creating a makeshift ponytail, snapping your head back so it’s lifted off the plush sheets for him to see, “Filthy, malyshka. So wet for me, for a man who has forced himself on you? Pathetic.” It’s odd, how he can still sound so composed even as he rails into you, fucking you so hard and so rough that the noises echo in the large, mostly empty room, bouncing off the wooden walls and invading your ears.

Your eyes roll into your skull, you can’t help it. He fucks you like he hates you, and he probably does, but it makes it all the more delicious. You can feel every single ridge of his cock pressed tight in your cunt, the mushroom tip slipping against your g-spot over and over as he sinks in and out of you, making things even slicker. You know your pussy is dripping, probably pooling onto the floor too – just another mess for you to clean once he leaves.

He grunts as his hips clap against your ass, mesmerised and unable to tear his wide eyes away from where your bodies meet, the ripple of your supple flesh with every harsh thrust, “My, my,” He moans, slapping a firm hand on your ass just to hear you cry out, “How beautiful you’d look carrying my bastard child.”

You gasp, unable to contain it, cunt fluttering at the Prince’s words – and you know he felt it too, with the way his hips stutter and he chuckles darkly behind you. He winds your hair tighter in his other hand, pulls your head back even further until your neck is popping and he can watch your flushed face as he fucks you.

“Oh, you like the idea of that?” He laughs, words being spat like venom as you stare up at him with doe eyes, tears pricking at the corners and threatening to spill out, “Like the idea of being with child to me, hmm?”

You nod slightly, unable to rip your eyes away from him. He looks almost evil, what little softness he may have ever had was clearly gone in this moment, yet you find yourself being so attracted to it that it’s dizzying. Being treated like a worthless nothing and being told so, too. You cringe internally as your tummy begins to bloom with heat, a testament to how much you were enjoying it.

He can clearly feel it, the way your cunt begins to flutter and your ass pushes back ever so slightly, the tiny amount that the space can allow, with how deep the Prince is fucking you, grinding in deep and bruising at your cervix with every punch of his hips, “You want to come, malyshka?”

The tears finally spill from your eyes, wetting the apples of your cheeks and spilling down into your ears from how harshly snapped back your neck is, “Please, please. I’ll do anything,” You babble, voice as wet as your cunt is, and Paul grunts, beginning to lose composure. Your crying and begging clearly doing it for him, like a true sadist.

“Come then,” He says, like it’s easy. You mumble out tiny whispered ‘thank you’s, letting the pleasure start to course it’s way through your bones without repression, “You have ten seconds, you haven’t finished by then, it’s tough.”

You whine, like a petulant child, thrown off by his words. He chooses that moment in time to change his pace, because of course he does. He pushes your head back down into the mattress, near on suffocating you as he rams into you so hard you see stars.

“Seven, six…” His voice taunts you, and you try to block it out, focus on the noise of your drenched cunt sucking him in, the coil winding tighter and tighter and threatening to snap, “Three, two…”

Waves of pleasure wash over you before he can even count to one, your legs shaking and pussy spasming around his thick length as your release washes over you. You physically bite into the comforter, screaming as you come, high on your tiptoes and body going rigid. You feel the gushes of slick spilling out of you, dripping down Paul’s cock and making a mess.

He ignores you all together, fucks into you once, twice more with a harsh slap on your ass and then he’s coming, too. Burying himself impossibly deeper as his cock pulses in your spent walls, painting them with his release.

You lie there, unable to catch your breath – and he acts as if he hasn’t just fucked you into oblivion then filled you full of his seed. You cry when he slips out of you, making haste of pulling his trousers back up.

“Malyshka,” His voice almost has you jumping out of your skin, his plump lips on the shell of your ear, “You’re mine now, got that? Another man, in these halls or out of them, so much as looks at you, and you’re both dead.”

Anything you may have had to say to him dies in your throat. Lust and hope coursing through your veins at his very words.

#prince paul x you #prince paul x reader #joseph quinn fic #joseph quinn smut #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn x reader #my fanfic #mine #x reader #fem!reader

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