#count orlo x F!reader

[13atoms]

Anthology (Count Orlo x Reader)

There's someone in court distracting Orlo from his daily duties, who loves the written word as much as he does. 1.5k, fluff, F!Reader

📚📚_

There were very few things in the palace as predictable as Count Orlo. He rose in the mornings, he ate when food was presented to him, and he completed his work on time. When Peter teased him, he did not rise, and when he made choices he followed the most pragmatic route which still offered some kindness.  

He could name each person at court, how they were related to each other. He often didn’t know who was sleeping with who, or when cruel words were passed between courtiers, but he knew the things which mattered.

In each part of his routine there were a hundred variables each day, and he could cope with all of them.

Except for you.

When you appeared in the library, or sat beside him at dinner, or smiled at him as he stood beside Peter and suddenly made his hands shake. It confounded him, that he would look for you in every room he entered. If you were behind him on the staircase, he would grow self-concious of the way he walked, the words he spoke, the way he held his papers.

Gradually, his steady routine had become decentred, until finally he was altering it with the hopes he might spend a little more time with you.

It was one of those evenings, where sleep was too far away and work was too much of a chore. He wandered the corridors, waited for some crisis which never seemed too far away.

At each wide-hipped skirt flitting around a doorway, his heart skipped  with the hope it might be you.

Finally Orlo settled in the library, hoping that if he could not read, he might find some solace wandering amongst the books. Hoping against hope that you would be there again.

He was so set upon his wallowing for the evening, that when you were there, he hardly noticed.

Orlo had closed the door behind him and wandered halfway across the room, before he heard your soft voice.

“Good evening.”

There had been precious little opportunity to speak in private before tonight, and now it was happening, Orlo had no idea what to do.

“Evening.”

You were sat at the oversized study table, which he recalled Peter ignoring lessons at when he was a child. Around you were a dozen chairs, the ghosts of academics which no longer existed in this part of Russia. He picked a book from the shelves blindly, and fumbled to smoothly pull a chair free of the part of the rug it had become stuck in.

You looked up at him, a few chairs down from the one he had chosen, and Orlo fumbled for words.

“Do you mind if I sit there?” he asked, suddenly struck by the fear he was intruding.

“Not at all,” you replied softly, “be my guest.”

In truth, Orlo realised he had little interest in the history volume he had picked up, and the moments passed interrupted only by the scratching of your pen. Long minutes stretched by, and yet he did not grow bored. Instead, Orlo found himself fixated on the thought of his body so close to yours in space.

Of what might be in your head, whether it might chime with what was in his.

“What are you writing?”

You looked up in confusion, your forearm curled around the page protectively, and he bit back an apology.

“Hm?”

“You’re writing, I assume? If it is not personal, of course.”

“Oh, no. It’s… it’s poetry. Nothing good, I’m afraid, I just… I admire a great many poets –”

“Me too!”

Orlo regretted his interruption at once, it had seemed like a wild thing, trapped in his chest and fighting to get out. You smiled at him, and he thought from the crinkling of your eyes it must be genuine, before continuing.

“Anyway, I just… I thought I would never know if I was any good at poetry if I never tried it.”

“That’s wonderful.”

You chuckled, and Orlo found himself smiling along for no reason he could name.

“How are you doing, then? Trying it?”

With a shrug, you gestured to the page in front of you, and Orlo could see you were halfway through a notebook.

“I’m doing okay. It’s a puzzle, but I enjoy it. Truly, it’s nothing special, but I find it settles my mind.”

“Incredible,” he murmured, and you couldn’t help wondering if he was teasing you.

“Do you write?”

“Poetry? No!”

Startled, Orlo stopped attempting to read what was on your page, and instead found himself staring at your face. A prospect which induced his heart to beat even faster.

 “Could I read anything of yours?”

It was impertinent to ask. He had predicted the hesitation on your face, anticipated the moment you could freeze and turn your face away from him as embarrassment burned at your cheeks.

It was worth it, though, for the moment he watched you stand and pull a book from the shelves opposite the table. It was smaller than all the others, without an ornate cover, and as you thumbed through the pages Orlo could see it was entirely handwritten as many of the older tomes in the library were.

“This is my favourite piece,” you offered, handing the open book to him.

Orlo thought he would melt to the floor, holding his breath as he read, and you watched with an intensity he had never seen from you amongst the frivolities of court.

“I wonder if you studied under Dante himself?” he finally commented.

Orlo was delighted at your response, the fear you might misunderstand him entirely gone.

“Actually, I wrote something closer to his tone – though obviously incomparable…”

 As you flitted through the pages, a furrow in your brow, Orlo could only stare.

The evening passed in moments of silence and moments of laughter after that moment. You were selective in the pages you showed him, glancing nervously if his fingers strayed to turn a page.

Yet you trusted him. You returned to your words as he read, and laughed in delight as he praised your work. You had moved a seat closer to him, and brought the candles around both of you, and if Orlo focused for long enough he imagined he could feel the heat of your body in the cool night.

When the night finally grew too late, you excused yourself with a sincere regret that made Orlo’s heart ache with hope. He took the book to his room, and devoured it cover to cover, in a way only someone with a true love of a poet can.

Between each piece he thought, trying to imagine where your mind had been as you wrote it.

The tone oscillated between love and loss and distress and simple joy, from piece to piece and stanza to stanza, and some hidden part of Orlo felt voyeuristic to have such a sudden insight into your inner life.

Each page was written with the tempo of good poetry, a few dozen meticulously penned words, followed by a flowing stanza of more rushed handwriting – as though you were desperate to get the words onto the page as inspiration struck.

When he finally fell asleep, it was with a jolt awake, as he carefully removed your book from where it had fallen atop his sheets and placed it on his bedside table.

*

When Orlo awoke, there was a sealed letter on his desk. It bore no other markings, not even his name – though once the page was snapped open the handwriting seemed as familiar as his own.

Time is curious, how it hangs around us

Languorous when it seems abundant, and short when it is scarce

An hour of joy lasts barely a blink,

A second of sorrow long enough to wrinkle crows feet.

Time is not told by the clock, but by the heart as it beats.

Orlo, my days here are often meandering,

Filled with banality,

Yet I find time flies, when you are near me.

Once Orlo had finished reading, he sat on the chaise by the door, and he read again. By the morning light streaming through the windows. In the privacy of his bed, curled up against the pillows, pulling the paper to his chest once he had read. Finally, he put the paper down and rushed to the door, only to return and read it again.

When he found you, it was at the breakfast hall, your meal long abandoned and your eyes firmly set upon the main doors. He had taken a shortcut, and watched you for so long he interrupted the servers and feared you would catch him staring as they swerved, swearing, around him.

It would be a decade before Orlo acted as a proxy to help you publish your first collection of poems, but his decision was made in that moment. Once your eyes met his, the time flew by.

[likesomekindofcheese]

Promised Part 3 (The Great Mini series)

Pairing: Grigor Dymov x fem! Reader

Word Count: 8K (more on the thicc side. So be ready)

Summary: You are bethrothed to the Russian Count Grigor Dymov in order to secure an alliance for your family and people with Russia from breaking. The day has finally arrived, your wedding day and night and all that entails

Part One//Part Two

Smut Scene for this Part (18+ only please)

Warnings:  Typos!!!! mentions of sex, marriage, family, swearing, dogs, Emperor Peter being Emperor Peter, drinking, drunkenness, weddings, and religion. The fear of rape is briefly discussed.

A/N: It’s finally here! Yay for wedding fics! For a few notes, I based the wedding ceremony from Russian Orthodox practices (since that is the religion obviously in the show of the court) so if I get something wrong about anything sacred, please drag me gently. Second, the gift mentioned in the middle part is, fun fact! An actual historical practice between couples! (I just though it would enhance the story). And third, I decided not to include a smut scene for those reading this fic underage...that part will be worked on and published separately. Fourth, I am thrilled and overwhelmed with all of the love shown for this miniseries. I am having a ball writing it! Enjoy!

Russian Wedding ceremonies were making your head turn. Already there were so many things to do you wondered if you could remember them by tomorrow. And this was the only rehearsal you had.

The tall priest, who you found out was called Archie, stood before you both. He practiced speaking a monotone blessing and made the sign of the cross over you.

“Next, you’ll be given candles…” he advised, waving his hands out.

Two men walked by to hand you both a candle (“for the ceremony, they will be lit, but they aren’t. So just be careful.”) You recognized that Arkady gave Grigor his candle and the bespectacled man you have seen greeting you when you entered handed you yours.

“Thank you…uhm…sorry, I’ve seen you around, but…” you asked.

“Count Orlo, Lady Y/L/N”, he greeted, with a polite nod.

“Thank you Orlo,” you muttered.

“Of course! Well, welcome to Russia! If you need any-”

Archie glared at Orlo icily until he scurried away, head ducked in embarrassment.

“Now let us continue…”

He said a line of scripture in a way that seemed mystical, close to ecstasy, his eyes closed and hands open to the sky. After a while, the droning lost its magic pull and became dull.

You and Grigor glanced at each other, making sure Archie wasn’t able to notice in all his holiness.

“We have to practice the puppy after this- would you like to see?” you whispered.

“I’d take watching paint dry over this, of course I want to see!” Grigor replied.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Just give her a bit of chicken,” Count Arkady advised.

You and Grigor nodded. You leaned down to stroke the fur of your little gift. She had trotted over cheerfully when either your or Grigor said “come,” prancing as if she was the one who owned the little apartment you and your mother were staying in. Arkady handed a gold bowl of cold, roast chicken meat that you tossed to the puppy every time she did as you said. Yout mother sat in a corner, silently watching everything, but present to make sure nothing inappropriate was going on.

“Very good…now, what is your little one’s name again? I can never remember,” he asked, politely ducking his head to sneeze into a handkerchief.

The puppy looked up at you and smiled.

“I’m calling her Sonya. It’s the Russian version of Sophie, our Empresses old name. And she was the first friend I met here. Besides, it’s a Russian name and she’s a Russian dog,” you explained.

“Very well, Sonya- sit!” Arkady ordered, his handkerchief falling delicately from his free hand.

He held up a small bite of roast chicken clear enough where she could see it. She sat again. He handed it over to you and you tossed it to the floor. Wagging her tail, she ate it up.

“Good girl, Sonya! Good girl!” you praised.

So far Sonya had not caused too much trouble. The servant for Grigor had often took her out to do business when she needed it. She did bark, chew on everything, and leave droppings on the floor sometimes. But the first night in your apartments, you had trouble sleeping in this strange new place. Little Sonya hopped up on the bed and curled up next to you as you laid awake. Her warmth and licking kisses on your face were welcome when your anxious mind was trying to make you awake. And soon you slept with her little body nestled on top of your stomach.

“Keep this up, and soon you will have a trained dog. The secret is to reward them every time they’re good and be careful with discipline,” Arkady advised.

Grigor nodded. He leaned down to pick up the Sonya and scratch her head. You could not help but notice that the party man Georgiana warned about had a kind smile to the little animal. Maybe she was exaggerating to scare you.

Arkady walked over to where a serf held up a laundry basket and got rid of his handkerchief.

“She hasn’t been a bother, I hope,” Grigor turned to ask, seeing how your teacher was distracted.

“You’ll soon find out…I’m joking, she has been fine. Energetic, but fine. Nothing out of normal for a puppy,” You answered.

Arkady took it to the next serf, advising him on kinds of ways it should be cooked for the notabilities’ dogs next time. The serf sighed and nodded before leaving. He turned around gracefully, clapping his hands, and rubbing them loudly.

“How are you both feeling!? You do know what is happening tomorrow…” he teased.

You could not forget. And you wanted to. The wedding was already tomorrow.

“Yes, well…we’ve already rehearsed the ceremony this morning and…we’ll…we’ll be ready!” Grigor said.

“The candles? The crown? Hopefully, you are prepared to kiss in front of all of court, they’ll ask for that! My Tatyana and I kissed fifty times at ours!” Arkady added on sheepishly.

You put your hand to your face to hide it in embarrassment. The days past mostly consisted of eating at small dinners and teas at least with you, sometimes Grigor, and your mother or walking through the gardens with some small talk between the three of you. His arm was offered for you to hold when you walked together. But that was the most of touching you both had done. Those and the chaste, formal kisses on the cheek or hand.

“We’ll be ready, for everything,” Grigor answered.

He went over to look at you, eyebrows furrowed in slight worry at your silence. You felt a slight dizziness from how soon everything would be

Arkady dismissed himself and left, and your mother got up from her seat in the corner to see him out. You turned to Grigor, face feeling warm.

“Are we ready to…to kiss in front of everyone? Perhaps we can make it work…”

Although you bit the inside of your cheek and folded your hands, eyes darting from the floor to his face and back again.

“I…I don’t think I am…” he said. “It’s been, uh, a little while.”

He was careful to not mention or talk about Georgiana unless prompted and you thanked your stars for that. It felt like being a mouse under the eye of a hungry hawk with her walking by in corridors.

“I know we can make this work, at least for everyone we know and the alliance,” you said. “Maybe we can…practice. At least for the ceremony.”

As your mother turned around to see you both chatting, Sonya went up to her, to greet her with a bark and a wag of her curling tail. Grigor stepped forward to her.

“Lady Y/L/N, can I have your consent to kiss Y/F/N? I’d like to do it before dinner, so I don’t reek of onions,” he offered.

Your mother looked at you both, then nodded.

“Alright, I don’t see why not. But no tongues.”

You turned to him, a little unsure of what to do. Your mother and Sonya watching closely.

“I don’t know what to do with my arms,” you confess.

He took both of your hands.

“We can just hold hands for now…” he advised.

“Then you have to lean forward, right?” you asked.

“Right.”

Leaning your face forward, you could make out the dust of freckles across his nose. He paused a little. You kept still. Then looking at each other’s eyes, he gave you a slight nod and both of you went in for a peck on the lips. It was so quick, so light, it was like gulping air.

Your hands immediately relaxed and let go. A rush of exhaling air left both of you.

“Alright, would you like me to ring for tea? After dinner, you both cannot see each other until after the ceremony,” your mother offered.

She scooped the puppy in her arms and carried her over one shoulder.

“That…that sounds nice,” he added.

“Shouldn’t you be with the Emperor? Weren’t you going to drink with him?” you ask.

“He can wait. Velementov might be with him.”

Once the tea set arrived and all of you had a sip, you all began to talk, and not just about what the weather was like. He made jokes and listened to your mother. He broke off part of a plain biscuit to feed it to Sonya. She even hopped up to the couch and slept beside him as he stroked her fur.

“Well, tomorrow’s the big day, I bet you’re tired of hearing that.” Your mother sighed, setting down her empty plate.

“But…I’m still jittery, I have to say,” you said, taking a last sip of your sweet tea.

Suddenly you looked at Grigor and he took his hand and wrapped it around yours. It wasn’t in the sweaty awkwardness of having to practice kissing, but it was dry, soft, and comforting.

“I’m jittery, too, I guess. But…if it helps Russia, we’ll do it,” he added. “Y/F/N is a brave woman to do this, and she has a gentle soul, the way I’ve seen her with little Sonya. I could do worse.”

Smiling lightly at him, you muttered a thanks. His hands heat was slowly becoming comforting. The shots of adrenaline from his touch were slowing down through you.

“And you Grigor…you’ll do, I guess,” you responded quietly.

The clock struck for the late afternoon. Grigor looked at it with wide eyes.

“Oh shi- no. We have a meeting with Archie about church laws and Peter wants me there until dinner. Can I leave?” he asked.

A part of you stifled a laugh from the suppressed swearing. At this point you were almost desensitized to it in the Russian court.

Your mother nodded, “you may.”

“And can I kiss your daughter one last time? I just want to be ready for the ceremony?” he asked in a hurry.

She nodded again, raising an eyebrow revealing her actual thoughts.

He leaned down and kissed you, putting in a little bit of pressure. And something…different. It did not feel like a polite kiss, or a practice kiss. It felt like a lover’s kiss. You closed your eyes, feeling it linger for just a bit. Then finally, he let go and said his farewells, leaving with a slight hop in his step.

It was as if a ghost on your lips was still there as he walked away. It was the nicest kiss you have had so far in your life.

Even before you went to bed to try to sleep before the big day with your mother in the other room, you found yourself tracing where it was.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, the hours dragged on throughout. You saw only your mother since the wedding would be in the early evening. You found yourself staring at the clock a lot, sweating with each tick of the hands. You wished you could run to Grigor and just vent about your worry, but your mother told you it was always bad luck before the ceremony.

And a marriage like this could use a little less bad luck you thought.

By two hours time before the ceremony would begin, Mariol arrived with the ribbons and decorations to start doing your hair.

“I’m here, the Empresses treat!” she announced, but waving her hands and shrugging as if it was the same dull task as sweeping. She held a wooden box under her arm.

“Oh, oh thank you! How splendid!” your mother said, taking your hand.

Mariol put the wooden box on your vanity and opened it, revealing feathers, pearls, and other little accessories.

“Want a bow?” she asked.

“Not for me,” you refused.

Selecting a white ribbon, you clicked your tongue for Sonya to trot to you. Leaning down, you tied it lightly around her neck with a bow in the back.

“She has to look her best too…”

“But she’s not the bride. Come on, Y/N…it is time we fix your hair. Not going to have walk down looking like a pigsty.”

All the twirls, tucks, and pins in the world managed to be shoved in your head by the time you were through. You wanted to groan, but when Mariol heard Sonya’s yapping, her pulling in became gentler and her head turned.

“There you go! And for a bit of makeup…”

“Can I hold Sonya as you do it?” you asked, turning from the vanity.

Mariol’s eyes went wide.

“Wha-yes! Please!”

Amidst the small dabbing of rouge, she cooed in a high voice at the little puppy, sniffing your face curiously. Your mother sat in the back, admiring Mariol’s work and nodding in admiration, with a little compliment here or there.

But you could hardly breathe your response to the face you saw in the mirror when there was a knock on the door.

Sonya leaped from your lap and trailed Mariol as she opened the door. A familiar face poked his head in.

“Hello Y/N!” you father announced, putting away his tri-cornered hat.

With somewhat of a scream you and your mother both ran up to him. Behind him walked in your brother in a nice emerald suit and his new wife in a pretty golden dress.

You called their names and embraced all of them, fighting the urge to cry.

“What…what are you doing here? I didn’t know I would even see any of you again!” you asked.

“We managed to receive lodging near…we didn’t want to miss your wedding!” your brother said, leaning in for another hug.

Sonya yipped and jumped before your sister’s wife. She leaned down and petted her.

“Oh, when did you get this precious thing?” she asked.

You put Sonya into your arms and held the dog before everyone.

“She was a gift from Grigor,” you explain.

“Your…your fiancee?” your brother asked, eyebrows raised up.

“Yes! He…he’s nothing like…like you know who. He’s a good man. In spite all of this…” you explained, getting a little dizzy at the thought of being bound to him until death in an hour.

“But, what of the emperor? He approved?” your mother asked

“I spoke with him yesterday and asked to attend, at least I wanted to walk you down, and he agreed,” he answered. 

He walked over to Sonya to feel the top of her head as well.

“We didn’t want to miss it either,” your brother chimed in.

“Well, we’re about to dress her. So, the men better head out. The ceremony is in an hour!” Mariol interrupted, she brushed her arms to shoo your father and brother away

Your mother leaned into your father.

“This palace is the size of the moon-you don’t know the way to the chapel!” she retorted she placed her hands on her hip.

She was wearing a blueish-green dress with only a few embellishments of lace here and there, along with a large lace fan that befitted the mother of the bride. You had to admire her. For a woman who never insisted she was beautiful and would call herself the reverse, this look proved the thought wrong.

“I thought I’d follow you! Just let me give her away! Please!”

She batted him lightly and shooed the men away.

With a gulp you let Mariol remove the buttons of your light day dress and set it away. With stays tied on and panniers attached, only the dress needed to be put on now. Then the gown waiting in your chest met its long-awaited fate.

She slipped it over your head. After a few touches to your already done makeup and hair, a few minutes passed in awed quietness. Your father and brother walked back in, astonished. Giving one of a dozen “you’re beautiful” compliments until you found yourself believing them too. They noted how elaborate the lace went along the opening of the skirt. That there were a few small pearls and jewels in the skirt here and there, especially with your pearl necklace, earrings, and a wedding veil attached to the top of your head. Mariol let the long lines of the veil fall over your face. The world you saw was now covered in a thin layer of white.

“You’re absolutely stunning, Y/N. No matter what happens after this, know that I love you,” your mother said, embracing you one last time.

It warmed your heart. A little. Even though the nerves still shot up your arms.

The hour struck six o clock. The door opened outside to see all of court looking at you.

There were a few murmurs of appreciation. You chose a nice white with faint hints of silver in a shade that was flattering to your skin. Little details-barely beads, but shinier- sparkled in the light. (you heard that Russian ladies were elaborate in dress and your visit and observations here were proven right).

Mother walking forward, you took your fathers arm and you headed through the palace. Your brother and his wife walked behind, walking Sonya on a small leash. Your view of the palace was blocked a little bit and you were glad of the guidance of your parents. Eyes and countless wigs turned as you both walked past.

At last you reached the chapel doors, full of gold and with saints gently looking down before you. There standing was Grigor and Emperor Peter, decked in cravats and with Peter wearing every medal on his coat you could count.

Grigor wore a wig that you could still smell the powder from. His coat was richly colored in a dark blue. He looked very striking and he turned to face you. There was a slight smile and he blinked rapidly.

Your father handed you to Grigor, and you took his hand. You both took one step into the chapel and paused as you saw the elaborate art and statues that covered the walls. Paintings of saints staring down between rows where even more courtiers sat to watch. You recognized Catherine and Georgiana from a brief glimpse. But you forced your eyes to stay on the black robes and beard of Archie at the altar.

Orlo and Arkady scurried forward with now lit candles. You nodded a thank you to Orlo who nodded back. You were both given a lighted candles and multiple prayers were said before and several bits of scripture. Then came the time to share the cup. The candles were set aside for now. Archie motioned to Grigor and he lifted your veil gently.

You looked up at him with…well, you did not know. And you could not describe the way he looked at you. It was soft, sweet, with reverence. Your eyes were beginning to water a little bit. But why were you crying? You liked Grigor, but…you were not sure how much. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, and everything seemed like a dream.

You both shared a cup of dry communal wine, and then Archie took a long golden piece of cloth, wrapping it around your joined hands.

Taking in a deep breath, Grigor began the vows, but he looked right at your eyes.

“I take you as my wife to be with you always-in wealth and in poverty, in disease and in health, in happiness and in grief, from this day until death separates us.”

He seemed like he meant it. It took you aback. You almost forgot your own vows but repeated them, albeit in a soft, shaky voice.

The vows said, Arkady and Orlo walked forward with two gold crowns that were placed on your heads in front of everyone watching. You both walked around the area of the altar in a circle. The cloth still tied with your hands together. Grigor and you took slow, careful steps.

Once the cloth was removed you were both given rings placed on each other’s fingers. but Grigor’s hands were gentle as he slipped the band into your finger. A tiny diamond sparkled in its center.

Archie read a last piece of scripture- a long and extremely dry one for a wedding. Breathing in a bit, you turned your head to look up at Grigor. His eyes shining and his mouth a little open.

He turned to look back at you and gave you another smile. A beautiful one. And this time you smiled back. For a few seconds you forgot the dreaded day you both signed that contract a month ago.

A final benediction was placed, and Archie finished. The crowns were removed from your heads. He made the sign of the cross over both of you and then turned to the crowd watching.

“Welcome to our court, the Count and Countess Dymov. Count Dymov, you may kiss the bride.”

As practiced, you both tilted your heads, leaned forward, and kissed. There was a slight spark to it and almost felt his free hand wander to your back to press you tighter.

It was done. Your family’s future, your people, and the alliance were safe. Part of you let out a small breath and looked over to your family with a knowing look, until you felt Grigor nudge you and you both walked out. 

There was uproarious applause. The emperor was smug but Catherine beside him looked genuinely happy. She was dressed in a light yellow that made her seem a flower among all these over the top wigs and laces. Your brother and his wife clapped with the sweetest smiles on their faces. But the same could not be said of Georgiana, dressed in deep orange with the mark of a heart on her cheek and giving you a glare every time your eyes accidentally wandered to hers.

Both of you walked through the halls, hand in hand, among more applause and a few tossing of flower petals. You turned and he kissed your lips lightly.

“I’m not an eloquent man but you look like a fucking snowdrop with all this gold in the palace,” he whispered.

You stuttered, still grasping  his hand, “th-thank you. You look very handsome as well.”

He let out a little smile as you both walked to a smaller room. A few trusted courtiers put a piece of parchment on a desk before you two. Both of you signed the marriage contract and waited for a serf to summon you to the dining room where the celebration would commence along with the dinner.

As the contract was rolled up by an old man as round as a peach (it may have been Velementov, Grigor taught you so many names it was hard to remember) and brought away, both of you were alone for a few minutes. There was an odd silence, then you turned to him.

“Grigor, I know you have had your heart broken recently and…I want to tell you, I’ll try to be a good wife to you. As possible. I’ll try to be understanding and I… won’t hurt you. Because I know how hard being hurt for you was. I might make mistakes, but I don’t want to hurt you,” you confided.

He shook his head a little.

“I don’t want to hurt you either…”

But speaking of hurt, there was the unspoken ghost in all this wedding talk that needed to be addressed. The one event you secretly dreaded the most. Clutching his arm and turning to him, you tried to think of a way to say it now that you were alone.

“Grigor…” you began, “Now we’re alone, we can talk. For…for uh, tonight, uhm…uh, I…”

You did not get to finish before a serf ran in. Without warning, he half pushed the both of you out. The Emperor and what seemed half of court was seated in the dining room. There was a flurry of huzzahs.

Emperor Peter jumped over the table, knocking over plates and silverware. You leaned out of the way of his flurrying and grabbed Grigor by the shoulder, with a pat on him. You took your seat close to the front and he made his way to your side. Peter leaned back in his chair which was always in the center. No matter what event was going on.

“Well, Grigor- you got yourself a girl at last! hope she gets every penny worth from you tonight!” he bellowed.

“Every penny worth?” you repeated.

He looked at you with a toothy smile and gulped down half of his wine.

“Oh, you should know! The Morgengabe! The Morning’s gift!” he cheered.

A serf poured you water and wine separately to begin with and a few musicians started playing, getting louder and louder.

“That what?” you asked over them.

“The morning, Gift. Its a German idea. Grigor, your wife is a bit of a dolt. At least her tits are decent,” he said.

“What’s the Morning’s gift?” you questioned.

Food began to be served on your plate, but your appetite was starting to decrease. You had a terrible guess at what it referred to. And you had to be sure it was right.

“It’s…uhm…” Grigor began, then he took a deep breath and turned to you, speaking so that you could understand every word.

“After we signed the contract when we were betrothed, there was a word between me, Peter, and your father. The dowry itself was covered. You’re not entering this union as a pauper and should you become a widow, you will have financial protection but…we all had to be sure the marriage was…”

He bit his lips, took in a breath, and continued.

“I gave over some money as promised by your father. It’s being kept with me. That money will be given to you the morning after the marriage is…uh, consummated. That way the alliance will be totally secure. Your family and Peter will know you weren’t just being thrown into a sham marriage that would make the contract weak. If it wasn’t complete, the alliance wouldn’t go through.”

“And the sooner the better!” Peter added, sticking his head between the two of you.

He looked at you and wiggled his eyebrows bawdily with a swirl of his goblet.

“I may just, you know- destroy your home country and chop off your family’s heads just for fun tomorrow because you haven’t fucked your husband!”

He leaned down to see your shocked expression and laughed.

“Well, money and a large cock, you have a lot to look forward to! Huzzah! Now where’s the vodka?”

As he gestured serfs forth to pour vodka into his goblet, you looked over at Grigor.

He took your hand and squeezed it.

“That’s the way it is?” You sighed.

“That’s the way it is here.” He confirmed, noting the worry on your face.

More guests came in. By the dozens. You could hardly even eat a bite or sip some wine or water because they kept wanting to talk to you. You were gladdened by your family and the few you were familiar with.

Then Orlo walked forward. Under his arms were a few books.

“Oh, here he comes again!” Grigor dismissed, rolling his eyes.

You lightly touched his arm, “no, let him speak!”

Orlo gave a slight bow in greeting.

“Why, hello there, Count and Countess Dymov! I’m here because I just wanted to give you a wedding gift…can you read, Countess?”

“I can,” you confirmed.

He handed you each two books.

“It’s mythologies, fairy tales…childish things. But since you are new here, you might find it entertaining to learn a little bit more about our culture. And so might Grigor.”

Grigor flipped through a few pages. He rested on one of a young girl walking through a forest with a branch that had a skull lit with a fire.

“Well, why read about an adventure when you can live it!” Grigor explained.

But you took the books gently and smiled at him.

“That’s very generous of you, Count Orlo! I’m sure my husband…” it was a new word with a taste as strange as their wine… “he would rather I read these to him for his entertainment than annoy him all day,” you teased, leaning over to look at the pictures as well.

“No, I don’t think you could! You’re not the type to annoy, Y/N” he replied. He smiled as he accepted a glass of vodka.

He nudged you and then hissed, “this is our tradition- watch!”

He stood up, but took your hand for you to stand up with him. Heads turned and noise was softened.

“To my new wife! And to my marriage! Huzzah!”

They all yelled “huzzah” back and you felt as if you could glow.

But he downed his vodka and threw his glass on the floor in a swift movement. The other members of court followed suit. There was a splatter of shattering glass like that of hail drops.

Occasionally there were yelps for a kiss. As if being actors on cue, you and Grigor would peck each others lips to their cheers. But not as many as Arkady said would happen.

As your family walked forward to hand you your dog, they had to tiptoe past broken glass as carefully as possible with lifted skirts and on their toes. Empress Catherine even walked from by her husband side to offer you congrats.

“You look very lovely and the ceremony was simple…”

“Oh, we only had a week to…”

“Oh no! I love simple ceremonies! Simple everything! They just mean more! And…are those books? You can read?”

“Yes, a wedding present from Orlo!” you nodded.

Both of you looked over the pages and stories, Catherine filling in with what she knew as you took bites of your dinner with relief. Serfs scurried with brooms to clean up the broken glass. A few dances were thrown and mingling was allowed. Knowing it was safe, you put Sonya in your arms and walked around.

Soon she barked and leaned forward, jumping out. She scurried, catching a bit of a dusky orange dress and chewing it with such passion, she shook it back and forth in her mouth with joy.

“Stop that!” the dress owner cried.

“Hey!” you cried, but right as you leaned down to stop her you recognized whose it was. And you froze with horror.

Georgiana looked as if she could see red as she analyzed you. Sonya panted happily in your arms, but you leaned away from her, as if to shield the creature from anything the Emperor’s mistress might do.

There was a solo violin striking up (Peter attempted to play).

“Well, look at you!” she said with a huff. She seemed only somewhat sad.

“Mademoiselle,” you acknowledged, head down in a curtsy. “Please, do not think me your enemy.”

“You are no threat to me.”

“No, how could I be? You are only our beloved Emperor's favorite. You hold so much prestige here. The ladies all prattle on how envious they are of you. I’ve heard them. I honor you, tremendously.” You started.

She looked at you straight in your eyes, expression unchanged from your words.

“You’re sweet. But so were your wedding cakes. And what do people with cakes? They chew them up into tiny pieces until they spit it out or ingest it until it’s nothing,” she spat.

“If you hurt me or my dog or my family, I will tell my husband about it. I am under the protection of the Dymov house.”

“And I am under the protection of the Emperor.” She replied.

The violin picked up and the Emperor called for a dance.

“Forget it. Let’s move past being like this. I’m not in love with Grigor. I’m only following my family’s orders.”

“That’s not what I see when you kiss him,” she finished as she strutted away.

The Emperor lead a brief speech for Grigor’s honor and to congratulate the marriage and the alliance it entailed. But your husband was having another sip of vodka, face flushing. As you returned to your seat he pulled you close.

“No, no, no…sit here, wifey,” he suggested. He put his hands on your waist and pulled you with immense strength over to his seat to sit on his lap.

You squealed at the closeness, feeling his breath and the outline of his body against yours. But he wrapped arms around you, beginning to kiss your cheek.

“Here, have some of these cakes, darling,” he offered, handing you one of the hundreds of small wedding cakes served for dessert.

Taking a bite, you could make out the density and the perfect amount of sweetness and flavoring.

“They’re…they’re scrumptious! Who made them?”

“Hmm, maybe the cooks. I just wanted to see your reaction to them,” he answered.

His pulled you a little closer, nuzzling into your head, neck, and shoulder area.

“My sweet wifey is soooo cute when she’s sooo happy!”

“Are you sure that isn’t the vodka talking, Grigor?” you retorted cheerfully, noting his glass.

He looked at you. Although his eyes were dilated from drink, he wasn’t a lost cause, at least not yet.

“If I’m not passed out on the floor, Y/N, I’m not drunk!” before taking another sip.

After a little bit longer, there were more songs. He was sobering some, the vodka wearing off as you offered him some water. He drank it as you stayed on his lap.

The songs were getting slower. Plates were clearing. And guests were drifting away. You balled your hands into fists and grabbed the skirt of your gown, trying to slow your breathing.

Your brother, sister-in-law and father excused themselves to take Sonya’s leash and lead her to Grigor’s apartments.

Oh, they’re our apartments now you silently corrected yourself.

Catherine and your mother came by. Grigor perked up and gently led you off of him.

“Y/N, Catherine offered to be with you when we lead you there,” your mother began.

Thanking with a curtsy, you left Grigor and followed them slightly behind to Dymov’s room. But looking behind, you admired Catherine glancing back at you with a smile and making small talk to her about books. She seemed so young despite the grandeur of her title. It was like she was just a friend of yours attending your big day.

They walked you over to the Dymov apartment. It seemed ominous with it’s red and the nighttime darkening everything thought the windows. The little dog barked and skipped in happiness when you walked in.

“Hello Sonya!” you said.

She wiggled her tail in greeting, little fuzz ball. Mariol walked forward, smiling. She seemed to look lighter and happier, spending time with little Sonya.

Your mother and Catherine unbuttoned you and pulled you dress over your head and removed the rolls from your hips. Mariol began to unlace your stays from behind.

“I…I’m so nervous I can hardly even think!” you confessed.

“Y/N, you have nothing to fear, really.” Catherine assured.

“It will be fine,” your mother assured, taking your hand.

“But…what if he…he hurts me. What if he…he rapes me. I’ve heard about that happening on wedding nights and…that’s what scares me the most.”

Catherine took your shoulder and squeezed it.

“You can tell me, and I’ll punish him. The Emperor won’t know and if you’re in danger, you can run to me. Wake me up in my chambers. I don’t care.”

“Does it…hurt when it happens?” you ask.

“When you’re new, sometimes. Especially when they are more...enthusiastic. But just a little. And not everyone feels pain the first time.” Your mother informed you.

Stays removed, Mariol began to undo your hair and wipe off what makeup was there with a cloth. You felt your hair fall down. Part of you wanted a blanket or a robe. You were in the Empress’s presence with only a shift on.

“What if I can’t…please him?” you asked.

Georgiana’s voice from earlier this week had haunted your mind considering tonight. If you did not perform well or even perform at all, you might be considered a failure to Grigor and even to your family, you feared. 

Yet, why did the thought of Grigor, no, your husband scorning you for his past lover make your stomach burn with envy?

“Don’t worry, it will be alright. Just tell him ‘no’ or ‘yes’, be firm and clear. You don’t have please him…just enjoy being with him, getting to know him,” your mother directed.

“It will be okay,” Catherine repeated. 

She guided your hand and you both sat on the edge of the bed. She grinned at you and you shyly smiled back.

A few minutes ticked by. Then male voices were right outside. Your heart leaped to your throat and you felt your legs freeze. Your hold on Catherine turned to a grip.

Then came the fateful sound.

There was a knock on the door.

The three of you jumped almost.

“Who is it?” Catherine asked.

“It’s Grigor, and the Emperor.”

Taking in a shaky breath, you said “you may come in.”

Grigor walked in next to Peter, who was flushed and stumbling a bit in his walk. Catherine handed you a deep green robe to wrap around yourself for a bit of modesty, seeing how embarrassed you already were at people seeing you in your shift. The three of you curtsied and the two men bowed, Peter staying low and then swaggering over to a chair. He flopped down on it, leg over an arm, and started blowing a little bird whistle.

You noticed Grigor was still in his wedding outfit and held a glass decanter of vodka and two large glasses

“Only a little while ago you were playing that,Grigor, when I was fucking the Empress on our wedding night, remember! Now we…we’ve fucking switched and now here we are!” Peter announced, blowing another shriek that erupted in spit across the floor.

Grigor walked forward and kissed your knuckles in greeting. It only struck you how handsome he was. He had a charming smile and the dark colors flattered him. He put an arm protectively over you and turned to the small group

“Thank you, everyone, it was a lovely ceremony,” he began.

“Count Dymov, do you need us to do anything?” your mother asked.

“No, mother,” he added, “and you may call me Grigor. For now, I hope you think of me as if I was a member of your family too.”

She grinned in return and addressed him by name.

“Phlah! Names shames,” Peter mocked, twirling the whistle with his fingers. Catherine looked at him with eyes wide and eyebrows down.

“How about we all have a toast to today!” Grigor announced, Holding up the decanter.

He handed a glass over to the emperor and then a glass between you both.

“I say our Emperor goes first, as our ruler and sovereign,” he suggested, pouring an extremely generous amount of vodka in the cup while giving his own only a dribble.

“I say yes! Hu—zaaaaah!” Peter cried, sucking up the vodka in a heartbeat. Grigor shared his glass with you so you could have a sip of the stuff before he finished it up.

Looking up at him, he gave you a glimmer in his eye. And you caught on.

“And let’s have a toast to the alliance! And our beloved Emperor for allowing it to happen. Huzzah!” you toasted, raising your glass.

On cue, Grigor poured another heap of vodka into Peter’s glass which he raised and swallowed down as if he were a thirsty beggar.

“Huzzzahhh f-for meeeeee,” Peter mumbled.

His face became even redder and he struggled to get out of his seat.

“Shit, w-why is everyone spinning! I order you to-to stay still!” he barked.

Everyone was already perfectly still. Catherine walked over and supported him over her shoulder.

“Let’s retire, shall we?”

“N-no! I want to…I want to watch G-G-Grigor f-f-f-uck her so I c-can…can have a good wank at it, a-at least, and m-m-maybe get my turntofuckher….ohmyfuckI’m going to vomit,” Peter announced. He ran out in a heartbeat and you heard him retch in the hallway outside.

And then the noise of his body falling on the floor.

“I will take him to his chambers,” Catherine offered.

Her eyes were alight and her pink lips tight from holding back laughter. Mariol placed an arm over her mouth as well and scurried out behind the empress. There were several footsteps and the huffing of serfs and you knew that Peter now had to be carried unconscious-and far away.

“I believe I must retire as well, good night,” your mother said.

They dismiss and leave. Now you were both alone. Your heart was racing, but you smiled and turned to Grigor in gratitude.

“That was brilliant.” You praised.

“I did have a feeling he’d want to do that. So I decided to do something about it. The vodka did get to me a little earlier,” he confessed. “But It’s worn up.”

You nodded, “yes, of course. I can tell.”

“Do you…need anything? Some water?”

“Of course.”

He walked over and got you a fresh glass poured from a crystalline pitcher. You washed away the bitter sting of vodka from your mouth and so did he. Both of you sat across from each other on the two chairs before the fire. At first all was quiet.

“Y/N…I know all of this had not happened the way we thought but…you have the support. My support. The Russian Crown. And my house and of the Dymov family, as well as our protection. You’re…you’re one of us now, it’s your right as a countess,” he promised.

I’m not Y/F/N Y/L/N anymore. I’m Y/F/N Dymov. You thought. Still unused to it.

“Thank you. I know I was quiet, but so much has been happening, today. I don’t know quite what to say,” you replied.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

You finished your water and he finished his. Another silence.

“You looked very handsome in your coat today, you’re a lovely man,” you complimented. He looked especially lovely with the fire’s glow against his face.

“Thank you, but I’m starting to get…a bit uncomfortable. May I take dress down to my shift?” he asked

“You may.”

He opened the door and brought the old man serf. The old man took away his shoes, stockings, coat, shirt, wig, and everything else, setting them away, until he was only in his shift and a pair of white breeches.

Though you stared away from him, focusing on the empty glass in your hand. He walked forward as soon as the old man set away the clothes and exited.

“Y/N…you’re tense. Are you…nervous?” he asked, kneeling down to be at your level.

You nodded, not even looking at him.

“Yes. I was scared you would…force yourself on me,” you voiced. “It’s what I was going to tell you earlier.”

He walked forward to you and put two of his hands on your shoulders, but not heavily.

“Y/N, I won’t do that…you can’t please a woman by forcing yourself on her and I…I didn’t want to displease you. I told you earlier, I don’t want to hurt you.” He reminded.

Your shoulders relaxed.

“I didn’t want to displease you either. Its just…I…I’ve never slept with anyone before. You’ve probably seen the file form the doctor we gave to Archie. There. The proof. And I…I’m just…I’m just nervous.”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous as well,” he comforted.

You thought of the Morning gift, of your duty …but you noticed the outline of his body through the shift. And every time you found your eyes go to his face, they would go back to his body.

Your eyes noticed that the books from Orlo were on a desk in the corner.

“What about these?” you said.

Grigor brought them to you. You passed a bit of time flipping through them. The illustrations, even he admitted, were lovely. You both studied it, asking which tales he was familiar with, and what stories you knew of. The tiredness got to you slightly and as you both sat on the chair as he sat down beside you, you laid your head against his shoulder a little sleepily.

Sonya slept deeply in the corner. She laid down on a soft pillow, her belly full of roast chicken from the feast, and legs twitching as if chasing something. Then she woke up a bit and wandered over to the next room to sleep.

Grigor closed the book and raised your chin to meet his face.

“I think I’d like reading more if it was with you, can we…we move to bed? You seem a little tired,” he said.

“We can.”

Both of you settled into the sheets. You sighed at the warmth of the blankets over you.

“Russia’s every bit as cold as you said,” you jested

“Then can I hold you, to keep you warm…just to make you comfortable.”

“You can.”

He wrapped his arms around you. The fire cackled in the distance and you could make out a ticking clock somewhere else in the room. Both of you laid down on your sides, looking at each other. He felt nice compared to the cold air everywhere else in the apartment.

“Can I kiss you, Y/N? I guess for…for duty. Nothing else has to happen until you’re ready.”

“You can. For our duty.”

He kissed you passionately, deeply. Something inside you made you grab him. You didn’t feel like you wanted to push him away. It was a tight embrace. You liked kissing him. Kissing him had set you on fire, something in your was waking up suddenly. You put your arms around him to deepen it.

Then you let go. You were almost afraid of this wanting. You liked touching him, almost too much. You could notice the top of his shift moving around, showing a bit of his chest.

“Let me kiss you two more times, please…for the alliance’s sake.”

“I’ll let you,” you said.

He leaned down for the first one, but instinctively rolled on top of you. You gasped.

“I…I’m sorry…am I crushing you?” he asked, shrinking away.

“No…it just surprised me. It’s not bad…”

“I don’t know what came over me.”

Then you smiled, and there was a new voice coming out of you.

“That was still one kiss, though. You own me another one.”

He kissed you again. Your hand went to his chest, lightly touching it.

“I…I’ve seen statues, but I’ve never seen a man in only his shift before…” you admitted.

“You can explore, you can touch me” he smirked.

You hands explored his neck, his shoulders, and then began tracing his chest again, and one to his back.

“Grigor…it’s for Russia but…I want you to touch me…”

His head tilted and he blinked rapidly.

“To touch you?”

“I… I…I trust you…”

“Well, if it’s for business…I will.”

You began to trace him more and he let his hands wander over you as well. You traced his neck down to around his shoulder and arm, feeling how each place rose up and went down. When you got to his hands, you put each of your fingers into the crooks of his- hands interlaced. He moved from kissing your lips to your cheeks, and then your neck. It was new and strange, tingling. But you liked it too much to push it away. And when he shifted to be more on top of you-but not his full body-you liked it too much to not stop it either. And every time you felt a small touch or kiss end, you wanted more.

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once it was over, he rolled off, both of you lazily staring at the ceiling and catching your breath.

Then you looked at him with swollen lips, undone hair, and wide eyes. And he looked at you. 

You began to laugh. And he laughed too in tandem.

“I was terrified of that! What was I thinking!” you said, looking over at him. The previous fear had melted away.

“It’s always terrifying when you do it first, even with a new person. But…you’re…you’re good.” Grigor commented.

The air from around felt cold. The fire was dying down and who knew what hour it was. Your two shifts remained crumpled on the floor like ghostly puddles.

“Could you…could you hold me?” you asked coquettishly, leaning towards him.

“Hmm, let me think about that...”

“Please? It’s getting cold.” you added, bringing his hand up to kiss his knuckles.

He leaned over to pull you close. He felt very warm, and sweaty. But you did not mind.

“I…I think we might find a way for this to work…” he murmured.

“Yes, I…I agree.”

He pulled you into his chest. Your eyes saw the small hairs and the rise and fall of his breathing.

“I remember…when I would wake up in the morning, and…I’d hate it,” he recalled, looking up at the ceiling again.

“Why?” you ask.

Tracing his chest, drawing little figures into it. He let you rest your head on his arm. It was getting darker and darker, the candles in the room were dying and giving out bit by bit.

“I’d just feel…alone…” he confessed. He looked over to you, eyes a little dark from the memory.

“Not anymore, Grigor. I’ll make sure of it. You won’t be alone with me.”

It is quiet and peaceful. You both fall asleep deeply.

At one point you wake up briefly, only to see Grigor talking to the old man serf, but he turns to you and shushes.

“It’s early-get some more sleep, Y/N. It was a long day yesterday,” he whispers to you. You see some tiredness in his eyes as well.

You lay your head back down without a word. You fall back asleep.

The light of a later part of the morning fills up the flat when you open your eyes again. Turning around, Grigor is wearing his shift, but still, fast asleep. He must have woken up, put it on, and then drift back into dreaming.

Watching him for a while, it seems he won’t be waking for some time. Even though sunlight is coming out of the windows with the strong glare of mid-morning.

You pull on your shift and your old green robe, you move over to where a tray was set with complimentary coffee in a fancy porcelain set and certain pastries with a note of congratulations from someone’s Aunt Elisabeth or other. But before you can even pour a cup or try a crumb, something catches your eye.

There is an envelope on the tray and when you open it there is some money.

You had forgotten about the morning gift completely.

  Taglist: @foxinaforestofstars @iwritefanficnotprophecies @itsametaphorgwil @queenlover05 @simonedk @panagiasikelia @grigorlee @fueled-by-novocaine @stardust-killer-queen @xviiarez @vintage-and-hypnotic @raerawrrae  @i-wished-upon-a-star-one-night(if I forgot to add you please alert me asap!!!) @always-a-fairycat @kiainspace @gwilymleeisbae @writeroutoftime @staradorned @im-an-adult-ish @marshmxllowfluff​

[13atoms]

Something About The Weather (Orlo x Reader)

A/N: my flat AND office are freezing, so I’m writing something warm wrapped in 3 layers and gloves. Also! I finally just accepting paying Microsoft to get my beloved Word back – writing now costs me £7 a month, but i am happy lol

Fluff, tiniest bit of melancholy, established relationship, gn!reader, set late in s2. Gn!Reader. Country/city/area names are modern because google is free, but I am lazy. [1.3k words]

❄

The weather had turned as quickly as Catherine’s favour for Orlo. Chill swept through the palace, emptying the corridors and making people bundle up for the quickest darts across the courtyard. Inside candles and fireplaces roared, stoked by serfs who were as freezing as the noblefolk. Each evening both you and Orlo bustled into the apartment, one after the other, drawn to the flickering fireplace, jostling for space in front of it and warming your hands and faces until you could hardly stand the dry heat.

It was a version of the same conversation, every night, but you didn’t mind.

“It’s too bloody cold in this place,” Orlo would grumble, and you’d shudder as you agreed.

“We should winter somewhere warmer.”

“Good idea, my love.”

You’d both sit for a moment, contemplating, letting your eyes ache from the brightness of the fire, knees aching from kneeling in front of the hearth.

“Catherine would never let you go.”

Then, one night, Orlo had scoffed at that.

“What?” you’d insisted.

“I think she’d quite like to see the back of me to be honest. I imagine she would happily ship me off to Florence herself.”

You weren’t sure what to say, so you reached for his hand, stroking your fingers over the familiar writing callous on his ring finger, sapping the cold from his knuckles into your own palms.

You reached for him again as you drank for your evening tea, the apartment warming around you as the drapes were closed and the fire fed more fuel. He offered you a weak, gentle smile at the gesture, pressing the warmth of his empty teacup to his cheek.

“Did the two of you fight again?” you asked quietly, and Orlo grimaced.

“She is fighting with everyone. Peter has driven her to distraction.”

The silence words hung in the air, a comment you’d heard from Orlo a hundred times. That he ought to have killed the deposed Emperor. For Russia, he was right. But you were glad it hadn’t. it would have changed something, killed the fight inside himself.

“You’re doing your best, that’s all she can ask. All we can ask.”

You liked the Empress. She was kind. Clever. A good friend to you, when you had found few others to share a keen mind. Still, you knew with kindness came blindness, with cleverness came stubbornness. Orlo perhaps liked those traits less in a leader than a partner.

“Let’s go to bed,” he had muttered, exhaustion evident in his

You’d read books in bed, refusing to leave the warmth of down covers, curtains drawn tightly around the four poster frame to create a tiny world, deep maroon fabric stopping the cold Russian winter from sapping your body heat.

The drapes muted the light, too, the candle you shared warmed by the deep colour, making the words on your page jump as the flame flickered, both you and Orlo tilting your books towards one another to read without the obstruction of shadows.

Each of you read of foreign lands, places with year-round greenery and not a mention of snow, where food was abundant late into the winter and the doctors had never seen a case of frostbite.

You wondered if those people read about Siberia, or Moscow, thought of the people wrapped in their furs, eating pickled and salted food, the beautiful, terrifying darkness of the skies which seemed to linger all year long.

  “Where are you reading about?” you murmured, knowing Orlo would be struggling to read in the light as much as you were.

His eyesight seemed worse these days, after too many hours hunched over his desk translating and writing.

“France,” he began, turning the pages back so you could skim a particularly vivid description.

“It sounds beautiful.”

“Yes, rolling green hills, fantastic baked goods – it seems. They mention them a lot,” he murmured, turning the pages again to show you yet another passage, watching as you read.

“Sounds warm,” you commented dryly, making Orlo huff out a shallow laugh, caressing the page he had returned to in thought at the words.

“Perhaps if we read enough about warm places, it will help.”

His book was new, but he had read yours before. You knew he had been taken with Italy, spoken at length about it until he finally finished the tome, and you could begin it. He often recalled passages like this, waiting for you to read a page before peering over your shoulder and asking what you thought of it.

“We could go,” he mused. “There’s nothing stopping us.”

He was dreaming again, and privately you winced as he did. He was a realist, you knew his imagination only hurt him, as much as you liked to imagine fresh cakes and warm beaches, the tiny boats you’d read about, floating up and down canals in Venice, the relics dotted around the south European countryside. It could not be. Not in this lifetime.

“Your job,”  you began, stroking his arm in a sympathetic comfort as your words brought him back down to earth, “the palace wouldn’t run without you. We don’t have the means, the carriage alone would be months of travel –”

“We have the means,” he scoffed, and you tried not to wince at the hurt in his tone, “and the palace would be fine.”

“We would be under a new regime by the time we returned!” you chided, trying to sound light-hearted even as the fragility of Catherine’s claim to the throne seemed porcelain-breakable around you.

“What is the point of all this? If we can never leave! If you want to leave, we will.”

“I’m happy here!”

“You’re cold here,” he murmured, and you let your head fall towards his, propped up against one another – books long forgotten in your laps.

You put your hand on his wrist, finally both warmed by the cocoon of textiles and body-heat you shared.

“I am warm now,” you promised, feeling his hum through your bones as clearly as you heard it in your ears.

 “One day,” he murmured, “we’ll go. We are not prisoners here. When everything is more stable, we’ll go.”

You used one hand to brace his jaw, keeping him in place as you shifted to kiss his temple.

“I know we will.”

He returned the gesture, gentle and sincere, nightshirt dragging against the pillows as he shifted to kiss you, first on the forehead and then on the lips.

You rescued both books from where they had fallen into the sheets, transferring them to your beside table and waiting for Orlo to remove his glasses before you extinguished the candle.

“I can’t wait,” he told you, the words a confession into the darkness. You smiled, shuffling beneath the covers and closer to him until he could feel the expression against his next.

“I can’t either. But first you need to stop fighting with Catherine.”

He knew you were teasing, the gentlest nudge to your shoulder the only consequence you faced as he curled in closer to you.

“I’ll do my best,” he promised.

“Thank you.”

It was a rare thing for the palace to be in complete silence so early in the evening, the cold driving people to their rooms and the deep winter darkness tempting them into bed earlier. It was something both of you enjoyed, hearing one another breathe undisturbed as you enjoyed the warmth of being pressed against one another, surrounded by soft fabrics and soft skin.

Orlo moved only to press his lips to your temple again, one hand curling around your back to press you against his torso. You wriggled to get comfortable, fearful of moving too much in case the cold air found space to keep between you.

His words were hardly more than a mumble as he spoke, lips less than an inch from your face.

“Do you think it’s too cold to undress?”

Your laughter broke the silence of the cold winter’s night.

[13atoms]

Fic idea: reader and orlo are penpals, and when the reader finally visits Orlo for the first time, they expect a suave, intelligent, confident man... And then Orlo's very, very flustered and tongue tied around them, but still in his endearing way?

No idea where to go from there, so have fun I guess?

Oh my god i love this concept. SO much. He’d be so suave in letters. 

Since I’ve been away a while: here’s some flufffffffff

Orlo fidgeted nervously as another carriage pulled away, an elderly Lord in an oversized wig departing rather than the woman he was expecting.

What would she be like? What would she look like? Sound like? Smell like?

What would she think of him?

He tried to gulp down the worst question, buzzing around his head like a wasp he couldn’t swat, cursing his sweaty palms as he rubbed them against his waistcoat subtly. The fear she wouldn’t like him had crept up on Orlo over the last few weeks, threatening to choke him the night before her arrival and keeping him from sleep as he had anxiously considered every possible outcome of their meeting for the first time.

Ought he to have warned her, of his reputation at the palace? Did he owe her some explanation of his flaws?

He wondered who she expected, if she had tried to fantasize about him as he had about her.

Her. This stranger, who he feared might already own his heart, who knew him better than anyone else in the palace walls.

They had flirted through neat script, he had agonised over her every crossed-out work and carefully chosen phrase, and now he was finally meeting her.

It was a strange gap in his day, between coup meetings and appeasing Peter, trying to hold the country together, Orlo had carved out time to await the arrival of her carriage.

He was being ridiculous, he knew it, standing by the turning circle of the carriages for hours. He had no idea what time she would arrive, and yet he could not bare to miss a second of her presence. So her would wait, alone and hoping his intentions remained unchallenged by the gentry at large.

No one in the palace knew of his correspondence, of his flirting and his attempts at charming in letters, of his secret he had harboured in letters nestled between official correspondence and against his heart in the inside pocket of his waistcoat.

He smiled, thinking of all the times he had leaned on the strength of those letters in difficult meetings and raucous parties, eagerly awaiting each new batch of letters in the hopes it might contain a couple of pages from her.

Catherine had almost caught him once, reading a letter from her crouched in a concealed corner of the theatre, squinting in the darkness in desperation to hear more from her.

“What are you reading?” Catherine had asked haughtily, reaching for the letter.

As quickly as he could without damaging the paper, he had declined to share with her, shoving the folded letter back into his pocket.

“Nothing!”

Catherine’s silent challenge, her stormy expression and impatiently tapping foot, had forced more words from him.

“A friend,” he muttered.

Her expression had warped into a wry smile, perhaps no longer afraid of his betrayal, seeing a little more than he would have liked.

Orlo smiled to himself against the cold air, the palace looming behind him and his beau somewhere through the forest, in a carriage. He could not deny the nervousness he felt for her safety, in equal measure to the nervousness he felt for her judgement of him.

In the windows, he could see people waking up, beginning their routines. Couples and single men, children and countless visitors to the huge building flitted in and out of the windows as the Russian wind whistled through the forest and horses and carriage crunched against the road.

A polite, “thank you” drew his eye from the windows above, causing him to staggered around clumsily to see the women disembarking the carriage.

He pulled her latest letter from his pocket, wondering if it might help him identify his mystery pen pal somehow, watching as she tried subtly to stretch from the journey and smiled at the driver.

Her reaction to the huge, grand building was familiar, and it made Orlo smile as she stared up at the windows above, marvelling at what was surely the largest building she had ever seen with wide eyes.

She smiled as she caught him staring, and Orlo found himself shrinking into himself, his chest tight with nervousness as she laid eyes on him.

"I'm looking for... Grigor Orlo?" she asked gently.

His name on her tongue made his heart stutter in his chest, and Orlo knew it. He was fucked.

"That's... actually me," he choked out, wincing at the stutter in his words.

He winced as her eyebrows raised, her gaze falling subtly across his face and clothing, mouth falling open for just a second of surprise too long. Then, she smiled so sweetly he feared he might faint.

“Then I suppose I am your pen pal!” she introduced herself, holding out a hand to him.

Orlo froze, kicking himself as he finally reached for her retreating hand, pulling it to his lips. Her soft skin brushed his lips in a kiss for just a second, but it was long enough for him to feel that clenching of his heart again, almost painful.

His mind was torturing him, seeming to race and halt at once.    

Stop acting like such a fool!

“Orlo,” he choked out, “everyone just calls me Orlo.”

He released her hand and stood, struggling to meet her gaze even as he was inclined to stare at her. She regarded him curiously for a moment, before nodding mutely.

Her carriage was pulling away, her bags awaiting direction as servants stood nearby, and he wondered at what a spectacle this all must be. Still, he found himself lacking words.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she told him sincerely, “at long last.”

“You too,” Orlo managed to return, wondering how a man of his age could manage to have his voice break whilst attempting to pronounce so few syllables.

The conversation had not truly been volleyed back to her, and yet Orlo could do nothing but berate himself for how badly he was failing.

He had thought her his soulmate, perhaps, a life partner. Words alone had been enough to prove their connection, a smart and witty woman he had begun correspondence with quite by accident seemed too good to be true, and he had been delighted each time she flirted back with him, and seemed as eager as him to talk more. She had travelled for days to visit him, for goodness’ sakes. She could not be more perfect, and he was fucking it all up.

“Where should I have my bags sent?” she asked him politely.

He wondered at what she might think, as he fumbled and failed to carry their conversation. Fuck. He had not even welcomed her yet, told her where she would be staying, he –

“Orlo?” she inquired.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, “um, there is a guest suite prepared. Near mine. Not that… not that that is relevant. Um…”

He turned to the serf who stood nearby, longsuffering and wincing at the man’s awkwardness.

“The guest suite three doors from my own, the door will be marked.”

They nodded, and vanished with the heavy bags.

His pen pal was staring wistfully across the gardens, and he felt nothing but pity for the poor woman. He had lured her here under the pretence of someone better than him, and now she would be undergoing the worst kind of betrayal, watching him fumble his words and wring his hands nervously.

She had wandered some small distance away, entranced by the morning bustle of the residents of the palace and their finery, the sheer scale of the grounds. He watched her for a moment, taking a deep breath, before stepping by her side.

“I cannot believe you are real,” he exhaled, “I have been so nervous…”

She turned a little to face him, but spared him her gaze. Perhaps she knew that was too much for now.

“Me too,” she admitted, “I mean, that you are real. And who you say.”

Orlo allowed himself to smile, and she turned properly to him.

“I was afraid I would let you down. I still am, in some way,” he admitted, the words rolling from his tongue unpermitted.

At least you are saying something, you fool.

He frowned at her displeased look, noticed how she took him in again, wondering if she was judging him. For his stature. For his clothes. His face. His voice. His demeanour.

He wondered which repulsed her the most.

“I admit, I had the same fear,” she told him.

Orlo opened and closed his mouth in surprise, her letter to him clutched tightly in his hand, the last words she had sent him before he could finally hear her speak in person.

“Why? You could never disappoint me!” Orlo heard himself pitchy, nervous still, and cursed himself for it.

She laughed, looking towards her feet, fluffing her skirt in a gesture which betrayed her own self-consciousness.

“I am embarrassed to admit it, but I fretted for hours on what to wear today. Whether you would think it was… enough. I know things are different here, I… I did not want to embarrass myself.”

Orlo intended to interrupt, one hand raised to make a point, but she continued to speak. She was not watching him, her gaze trained instead on the ladies assembling on the lawn in their ornate jewellery and fine dresses, squinting as if in scrutiny.

“I confess I had even considered turning around, for fear you might not find me as… eloquent in person.”

Orlo caught himself chuckling, quickly reaching for his pen pal’s hand to assuage her immediate fear he was laughing at her.

“I cannot believe how thoroughly your mind seems to match mine, in its cruel patterns,” he explained.

She smiled nervously, unconvinced, and he dropped her hand.

Then, he reached for it again, leaving his fingers awkwardly outstretched as he allowed his rue thoughts to spill from his mouth.

"I find that beautiful words come to me easier than beauty, flattery and emotion are easier through a quill than they are through my own voice. I understand if you want to leave. And if I have misled you in some way... oh, god, I am sorry."

His words were left with a beat of silence, self-depreciation stamping out hope as it blossomed at her timidly upturning lips.

“Now, you are sounding rather more than my pen pal,” she teased, and Orlo caught himself smiling, though the jibe felt rather at his own expense.

“I do not measure up in person…” Orlo attempted to fill her words, to release her from the need to tell him herself that she would be leaving.

She took his hand.

“On account of beauty, you certainly do. And perhaps you might show me a little more flattery and emotion as you introduce me to the grounds?”

She adjusted his arm, and he found himself allowing his muscles to go limp at the contact, letting her manipulate him as she pleased until he had styled him to offer his elbow, and snaked her own arm through his.

He covered her hand with his, feeling butterflies returning to his stomach.

In a good way. An exciting way. She smiled across at him.

“I would truly love that,” he confessed sincerely.

She leant into his side fondly, make his heartbeat accelerate faster than the wildest jigs danced in the palace. I would like so desperately to dance with her, he realised.

Ahead the sky was a bright blue, both of them squinting at the sun as Catherine joined the women in a chorus of bottle-smashing cheers. The bark of dogs inside the palace was accompanied by gunshots, as a hunt prepared to go out.

And Orlo was about to go on a date.

A date who was chirpily hanging onto his arm, looking around at all the new sights and flinching at the new noises.

Just for a second, he wondered that she might get used to them.

And stay.

With a blink he finally took a step forwards, delighting in how she bounced excitedly alongside him, his earlier trepidation giving forwards to the kind of fond nervousness which arrived at the start of something good.

As she smiled to him, he found himself earnestly grinning back.

“Then let us begin.”