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pauldanoofficial · 1 month ago

Text

Then He Kissed Me

Pierre Bezukhov x Fem! Reader

a/n: hello danonation!!!! first time writing fanfic, i hope you enjoy it! it's kind of terrible, so feel free to add constructive criticism. 2.3k words. love ya <3

a/n 2: @blacktearsofmymind this one's for u bby, hope ya like it.

A young lady of finer society in Russia has one purpose: to marry a rich man.

As the youngest child and only daughter of a baron and baroness, this is a sentiment you grew uncomfortably familiar with hearing. Growing up in the opulent home you did, drunken parties and lusty society balls would grace the halls of your home frequently. Therefore, you unfortunately knew all too well that this day would come.

In your bedroom, you sit before your gilded mirror, analyzing the acanthus leaves carefully carved into the giltwood frame. In all reality, you are trying to distract yourself from the incoming tragedy of the fast approaching night. A party. Having come of age some years ago, your family is growing restless. A girl of your age, especially of your status, should have been married off long ago. It's not as if you are an ugly girl, quite the opposite. You are a statuesque kind of beauty, eyed by men wherever you go. You come from an incredibly wealthy family, not only that, a well-loved family. The problem is, of course, is that you are quite the recluse. Unlike your family; parties, alcohol, gentlemen of the night- it was never quite your style. And that's all Russian royalty was, all the things you hated. You dreaded parties, you dreaded being paraded in front of men 10, 20, 30 years your senior, and you especially dreaded being shoved around by drunken brutes at parties attempting to partake in some sort of 'dance'. In fact, you loathe it.

You are ripped from your thoughts as you hear rapturous knocking on the other side of your tall mahogany bedroom doors. Without waiting for an answer, you watch from the reflection in your mirror as the doors swing open, your lady-in-waiting, Yelizaveta Kurakina, hurriedly walking over to you, her big brown eyes glistening with pure excitement.

"Miss! Miss, you must get ready! The party shall begin in one short hour, and it's imperative that you look your absolute best."

You let out a long, exasperated sigh as Yelizaveta babbles excitedly, clearly happier about the party than you are. However, on your parent's orders, you are in no position- or frankly, mood- to argue.

Although Yelizaveta seems to sense your apprehension, she has a job to do, and she intends to do it well. You are accustomed to being bossed around and assisted with dressing by your ladies-in-waiting though, so you sigh as you stand from your ornate stool, kicking it under the vanity your mirror rests on in a final act of silent defiance. Yelizaveta slips your night robe off, the beaded eastern silk falling into her arms with a soft thud, leaving you in your chemise as she drapes the robe across your dresser, moving to your ornate closet to find the dress she had mentally selected for you to wear that evening. When you hear her exit the closet, you are almost afraid to look in her direction. Afraid that once you see the dress, this rotten night will become real, unavoidable.

Yelizaveta walks directly in front of you, forcing you to observe the dress she picked. It is a gaudy beige dress, adorned with glittering patterns, swirling and creating movement from the train all the way up to the empire waistline, where a golden bejeweled belt sits. The square neckline and puffed sleeves of the dress are finished with an intricate lace detailing. Reluctantly, you nod in approval, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.

Yelizaveta slips the dress onto you over your chemise and you proceed with the rest of the party preparation. Half of your hair is braided and pinned, the rest of your hair left to flow around your shoulders and frame your face gracefully. She then brushes turtle oil through your hair and lashes, making them shine. Finally, pearl powder is packed onto your face with a fine piece of cloth, leaving a small luminous glow behind, highlighting your most prominent features. Almost as if on queue, your father's manservant rushes into the room, stumbling over his words as he announces:

"The guests are beginning to arrive, Miss (Y/L/N)."

The manservant bows curtly and walks out without another word.

"Yelizaveta, I do not wish to attend this party." You state in a low mumble as you hear people beginning to enter your home, the party starting downstairs. People are already yelling, dancing, laughing, drinking, and you already want to leave this party you haven't even attended yet.

Yelizaveta stares you down with an almost motherly authoritative look, staying silent for a few moments.

"Miss, I know you wish not to attend, but you are to. On strict orders of the Baron and Baroness, they have required your attendance." Yelizaveta sighs, continuing, "You need to meet a nice man, (Y/N). Someone who will care for you, love you-"

"I have all of that here." You cut her off bluntly. "I don't need a man to boss me around, force me to these society balls, force me to wait on him, bear children, I don't need any of it."

Yelizaveta averts her eyes to the floor, feeling almost like a scolded child at your response.

"Well," she begins, voice quieter now as your gaze pierces through her, "whether you want to or not, whether I want you to or not, your attendance is mandatory."

It is your turn to avert your eyes now, a look of apprehensive defeat etched onto your face. Yelizaveta, not wanting to waste any more time- for the party started almost ten minutes ago- takes your arm, quite frankly tired of you attitude, and drags you out of your bedroom into the halls of your parents' palatial home, leading you down the hallway and toward the stairs leading to the foyer of the house- and subsequently, the ballroom. As you walk down the stairs, Yelizaveta seemingly decides that she trusts you enough to walk on your own without running off, and the haunting sounds of the party draw nearer. When you reach the foot of the stairs, there are a few noblemen and women straggling into the party, but you ignore them, approaching the ballroom and attempting not to make too much of a fuss. Yelizaveta takes her leave as you reach the ballroom threshold, not wanting to impede on this high-class soirée. Regrettably so for yourself, as you now have to walk into this awful event by your lonesome.

As soon as you enter the ballroom, your clearly tipsy father approaches you, swinging an arm around your shoulder and literally dragging you to the other side of the ballroom, drunkenly slurring about wanting you to go out and start 'meeting someone'. When your father finally releases you in the center of the ballroom, you are lost for what to do other than to stand awkwardly and wait for someone to approach you. It's not like these men were unattractive, no, they were just assholes. Sorry excuses, oafs of men. You look around at the group you are surrounded by, trying to see if any of these noblemen were alone tonight, and if he was, hopefully, just maybe, he wouldn't be a complete and utter jackass.

As your eyes search the vicinity of the ballroom, you make eye-contact with a man you don't quite recognize. To be fair though, you would never recognize anyone at these balls, for you rarely attend. The man eyes you up and down, as you do him. He is a tall, stocky man with round glasses and brown curls that adorn his face. Before you have a moment to think, avert eye contact, run away perhaps, he begins walking toward you, an ungainly cadence to his steps. You stand there, still, and accept your fate as the man approaches you.

"Uhm..." the man begins softly.

'Great start.' You think bitterly to yourself.

"Hello, Miss.......?"

"(Y/L/N)." You bluntly reply, putting forth a broody front. However, the man is so bumbling and awkward you almost feel sorry for him.

"Oh, hah," he replies, stumbling over words as if his brain is speaking faster than his mouth, "daughter of the baron and baroness, I presume?"

You let out a tight-lipped nod in affirmation, never one for pleasantries. You do find this man almost.... charming in a way. He's not quite the same as other society men, not as brutish and overbearing. He's kind, so far.

"Oh-oh, and I am Pierre Bezukhov, son of Count Bezukhov." He stuttered unprompted. You find it odd that he clarifies his parentage, but part of you wants to believe that he feels sorry for calling out yours.

You stand idly as you wait for the man- Pierre- to ask the inevitable question-

"Would you like to dance?"

There it is. Though unamused by the whole ordeal, you begrudgingly let out a hum of approval. This is a society ball, and if you aren't engaged in dance with someone soon, your father may tear your head off. Besides all of that, Pierre has been shockingly amiable up until this point, a stark contrast to the types of men that typically patronized these events. Pierre reaches his hand out to yours, and, hesitantly, you take it.

It is cliché. It is like love at first waltz. As you and Pierre chat, you find yourself beginning to open up to him, and him to do the same. He tells you of his disdain for soirées, a comment you make sure he's aware that you agree with. He tells you of his mistreatment, of how everyone outcasts him for being the bastard son of Count Bezukhov, for being a stubborn and argumentative man. You tell him of your parents, their insistence on beginning courtship with a nice, and most importantly wealthy man, asking you why you can't be like Alyona, your cousin that married a Count the moment she came of age. You dance throughout the ballroom, sideways glances and scrutinizing eyes following you and Pierre as you dance yourselves into the corner of the room.

As the night goes on, men get drunker and drunker, and their wives get madder and madder. By this point, you and Pierre are sitting on a small bench in the corner of the room, chatting and laughing as you observe the belligerent men in the crowd as if you were watching a play at the theater.

"Pierre," you sigh, "would you mind walking me to my bedroom? I'm awfully exhausted and don't know if I can make it up all of those stairs by my lonesome." You know what you're doing. Although anyone could tell by simple observation of the man, you noticed throughout the night how endearingly awkward and fragile Pierre is. He is though, above all, a proper gentleman. He agrees, standing from the bench and sticking his arm out by his side for you to take. You, no longer feeling so grudgingly or awkward around the man, take it and pull yourself to a standing position, slipping out of the party without notice.

As Pierre slowly walks you up the stairs, you are suddenly more aware of the growing romantic tension. Throughout the night, you had caught yourself falling for the man. You didn't want it to happen, in fact, you went into this party planning to avoid as much male attention as possible. However, there was... something. Something about Pierre that drew you to him. Despite everything, you were... dare you even think this... in love with him.

You are brought out of your deep thought by Pierre clearing his throat, evidently trying to alert you to your arrival at the ostentatious doors that lead to your boudoir. You look up at Pierre, locking eyes with him as he politely gives you a slight smile. His expression is purely... unreadable. His eyes are twinkling with something that resembles adoration, but his face tells a story of tension and apprehension.

You don't know what to do, what to say. Say goodbye? You can't just tell Pierre 'goodbye' after the wonderful night you shared. This man might have just single-handedly restored your faith in your future, and you can't just abandon him like that.

Without a single word, you rock up onto your tip-toes slightly and plant a soft, chaste kiss directly onto Pierre's lips, face clashing slightly with his glasses. He doesn't kiss back, too bewildered by your sudden boldness and.... choice to kiss him of all people. All you can bring yourself to do is stare at him, waiting for some sort of reaction. As his silence continues, you, again, just pray for a reaction. You hope he pushes you away, stumbles out of the vicinity awkwardly, confesses his love, anything but this. The seconds feel like minutes as the silence pries on. You are at a loss, you need to break this silence.

"I love you..." you whisper to Pierre.

His eyes grow wider, sturdy body visibly stiffening under the tension.

'Fuck,' you think. 'I messed everything up. Pierre is the one man I have ever met whose company doesn't make me want to keel over, at a godforsaken party of all places, and I just ruined our chances.'

Pierre rips you out of your self-loathing haze as he whispers back to you the best thing he had said to you that night.

"I love you too, (Y/N)."

Your heart begins beating faster as your body relaxes from a tautness you didn't know was there. This time, it is Pierre's turn to feel a flaming boldness, him taking you by the sides of your face, leaning down to kiss you back. Unlike yours, his kiss is deep, romantic, maybe the single most passionate thing you have ever experienced in your life. As you pull apart, Pierre stares down at you with an awkward but dopey smile, muttering three final words to you.

"Goodnight, Miss (Y/N)."

#pierre bezukhov x reader #pierre bezukhov #war and peace #war and peace 2016 #war and peace bbc #paul dano x reader #paul dano

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