Arm in Arm (Count Orlo x tall!female!reader)
Thank you for the people who recommended Orlo for this! Getting back into writing fic after so long off was very difficult and very slow, but this is a first step! Reader is taller than Orlo (>5'8" or something?) and wearing a skirt.
Fluff (very light hurt/comfort) | Oneshot | 1.6k
It was a generous Russian morning, which looked to precede a deeply pleasant day. The whole world was languid and cheery, with a gentle breeze swaying through the summer drapes and sunlight illuminating patches of the rugs which ran through Orlo’s living quarters. The fire was built in its grate, but unlit, and the chaise longues had been moved to let you bathe in the warmth of the sun instead.
There was a great feast being held somewhere which wasn’t the Palace, and the whole place had breathed a sigh of relief as a great convoy of nobles and royals set off to attend it. It was, Orlo decreed, a rare day off. And the two of you were to enjoy it together.
You groaned and stretched out, wary where your legs were draped across Orlo’s lap. There’s a burning behind your eyes as you closed your book over your thumb, and extend both of your arms over your head. Hours of reading had left a tension in every part of you, yet it quickly melted away.
Orlo closed his own book, stretching himself out like a cat with a groan so gratuitous you were sure he’d intended for the sound to make you laugh. He yawned as he set the books aside and hugged your calves to his chest, making you shout out in shock as you were pulled down in your seat.
Laying flat, you looked up at him, felt the gentle stetch through your spine as he kept a hold of your legs. Orlo was smiling lazily, in a way you hadn’t seen him do in months. You flexed your bare feet, felt the muscles of your calves move against his arms, and threw your head back to stare at the ceiling.
It was painted with great skill, depicting a scene you probably ought to distantly recognise from the Bible. You had no inclination to focus on the brushstrokes for that long. Instead, you enjoyed the settling of your back against soft cushions, and the gentle patterns Orlo was tracing on your ankle.
“You’re too long for his sofa,” he mused, finally setting your legs down and letting them hang off the end of the arm.
He was trapped in, slouched under your legs, head lolling against the cushion behind him. Looking down the length of your own body, you only felt contentment. The Count clearly didn’t have anywhere else he’d rather be.
“I’m too tall for the chaise in my apartments too, the furniture-makers ought to be more considerate.”
You had no quarrel with the chaise. Not really. You were enjoying the relaxing, hazy feeling of having your legs above your head.
“I suppose if it just means we have to be closer together.”
“Tragic,” you murmured, looking back at the ceiling.
Orlo snorted a laugh, pulling his glasses from his face and tossing them onto the side table. When you lifted your head to look at him he was rubbing at the indents his glasses left on his nose. You loved seeing him without them, it was something private. Reserved for you. He squirmed with discomfort when you said it, but he was so pretty without them.
“Does it bother you?” he asked suddenly.
You cocked your head, humming a question.
“Height, I mean?”
Entangled together, you had forgotten he was any shorter than you. Now he looked at your legs, side-by-side, as his stretched out in front of him, and you felt a flash of embarrassment.
“I suppose… sometimes I think I’d prefer being shorter. It would be easier.”
Orlo frowned at you for a moment, and then rushed to speak, his words falling over each other.
“No! That’s not what I meant at all!”
His hand was back on your calf. Orlo’s eyes were wide and sincere, flashed with panic where they had been downcast a moment ago.
“I just meant…” he thought for a moment, thumb rubbing across your calf, “I know it’s not… popular to be seen with men shorter than you are.”
You thought for a moment, that uncomfortable sting in your chest completely extinguished by the slight shine of Orlo’s eyes. There’s nothing wrong with you, you wanted to tell him. You saw how Peter looked down at him, how people made jokes. The way being measured for new clothes would put a damper on his whole day. He’s avoided the process entirely for far too long, until he began courting you.
“Do you think there’s anything I’d want to change about you?”
“Wouldn’t you prefer it? For it to be a little more comfortable when we dance? To have someone… more?”
“All we have are the gifts we are given, Orlo. I wouldn’t trade you for anything.”
He struggled to articulate what it was he wanted to say, and you waited, not wishing to put ideas in his head or words in his mouth. His hand found your ankle, and stroked over the delicate bone there. He brought his face to your calf, and mumbled against it as he spoke.
“I just want you to feel protected…”
“I do,” you insisted, quiet and sincere.
For a moment there was silence. You stared back at the ceiling, a maze of richly coloured stories merging into one another. Was that Eve above you, tempted by the serpent? Samson, in the next scene? With long cut locks of hair beside his sleeping face, and the glint of Delilah’s knife against the pillow?
“I’m sorry. You should never have to feel inadequate… I try to slouch. To not make it obvious. I can step further away, if you prefer…”
“I hate when you do that,” he told you plainly, no anger or malice in his voice. “You’ll hurt your back.”
The paused for a while, staring at the carpet.
“You don’t have to change yourself for me either.”
“I know I just feel bad sometimes…”
You thought about him in the moment he thought no one was watching, straining to stand up straighter, rocking on the heels of his shoes, staying seated when Peter walked up behind his desk to speak with him.
“Why would you feel bad?”
“It’s not as though you’re short, Orlo. Lots of women would look fine beside you, I’m just tall. I just know… some men don’t like being the shorter one.”
“I love that you’re taller than me.”
You ignored him. The cut on Adam’s rib was a smear of crimson against delicately painted skin, the paint so fresh it might have been real blood pouring from the ceiling.
“Catherine is tall,” he murmured, “and widely considered one of the most beautiful women in Russia.”
You hummed, and he reached for your hand, pulling it into his lap.
“Probably the second most beautiful,” he teased, and you scoffed at him.
“She’s not that tall. Peter is taller.”
“Peter is far too tall. I often think if he were shorter, he couldn’t get away with as much. He’d be too easy to punch.”
You shushed him, the sound broken by a laugh, and Orlo groaned, hiding his smile against your underskirts.
“I don’t want to make you feel bad about yourself. You have to know, that’s the last thing I want.”
“You don’t.”
He thought for a moment, and tapped his fingers on your skin in the pattern his often drummed into his desk. Finally, he spoke again.
“I love to see how tall you are. I love that I can spot you across a room, that you can do things with such ease. I envy it, sometimes. When I have to rush to keep up with you.”
You groaned as you curled yourself towards him, taking another moment to stretch. That horrid pang in your chest was now absent, replaced with something warm. Your guard was down. The palace was so quiet the outside world might as well not have existed. You indulged your insecurities a little longer, knowing Orlo wouldn’t strike if you showed weakness.
“I always worry that eventually you’ll find someone… easier. Someone shorter.”
“Why would I even be thinking about that, when I’ve got you?”
“A good point.”
It took a great amount of shuffling to lie next to him on the chaise, but it was worth it, to be beside his warm body. He pulled one of your legs over him, offered his bicep as a pillow. His dark, warm eyes staring into yours still gave you butterflies.
“If our heights bother other people, that is their problem. I’ve never known someone who understands me so well,” he murmured, “even if you take up far more of the bed than you ought to.”
“You’ve never complained about me being in your bed. You cling to me –”
“Yes, I understand. I’m teasing you, my love. I want you to take up every bed I ever sleep in.”
“I wish you saw yourself how I see you, Orlo. You’d never feel like you needed to be taller again – you’re the only person I pay attention to in any room.”
“How funny, I feel completely the same.”
You would concede, months later, when the bloodshed had ended and Orlo’s quarters grew far too big for one man, that he had been right to have a longer chaise long made. And when he crushed himself into you after long, arduous nights, his face pressed to your neck, you would both be grateful you could shelter him from the world – even for the shortest moment.
“Do you want to go out today?” he asked, when his arm was going numb from cushioning your head and the sun was high in the sky.
“Perhaps just for some air?”
“That would be nice.”
Your elbows didn’t really fit with one another, formally walking arm-in-arm as many other couples did – though you didn’t feel sorry for it. Instead you took a turn of the gardens hand-in-hand, head held high, all the closer for it.
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