#war and peace bbc

[istanblogs]

Deep and sad eyes of lovers..

Pride and Prejudice - Mr Darcy

Atonement - Robbie Turner

War and Peace - Andrei Bolkonsky

Peaky Blinders - Thomas Shelby

Anna Karenina - Alexei Vronsky

Anna Karenina - Konstantin Levin

Victoria - Prince Albert

[pauldanoofficial]

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)."

[stranger-in-a-strange-new-world]

This is my plea to anyone who has seen war and peace (bbc) to please give me the timestamps for the leg scene. I looks so good but the bbc had to go the whole hog. I would be most grateful.

[aldenhan]

Natasha and Pierre throughout several adaptations of War and Peace

[BBC War and Peace (Harper, 2016), War and Peace (Bondarchuk, 1965-1967), War and Peace (Prokofiev), BBC War and Peace (Conroy, 1972), War and Peace (Vidor, 1956), War and Peace (Dornhelm, 2007), Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet of 1812 (Malloy)]

[brekkerslass]

😍😍😍

[danosrosegarden]

How does Dano's Rose Garden Pierre stim on his lover? (for Valentine's fluffiness)

anyone else but you - pierre bezukhov x gn!reader headcanons ₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

{valentine's requests: one ♡}

{contains: descriptions of anxiety paired with some sweet fluff. <3}

♡ Pierre's got a chronic ache sizzling in the round curve of his jaw and a constant wave of curdled dread sloshing back and forth in his gut. When you've taken beating after beating from everybody and everything around you, you begin to fear stepping out into the light and being seen.

♡ You're working hard on trying to pick apart those thick walls he's built up around himself as he's aged. You're diligently waiting for him to show you his true self: a wildly funny and intelligent man with powerful opinions and gobs of plans and dreams hatching in his brain. You've stolen small glimpses of him before, but each time he catches his voice rising up too loudly or hears his laugh echoing too fiercely, he shuts himself down.

♡ The truth is, his heart is blackened with worry. He's plagued with anxiety, haunted by the fear that one day, he will just be too much for you and you'll be gone. He can't afford to lose somebody like you...somebody who keeps up with his unbridled rambles and challenges his views. Somebody who sees the untamed jumble he is and holds it gently, loves it dearly. You. He can't afford to lose you.

♡ You can feel the deep, blanketed worry radiating off of him when you attend parties together. He'll hold your hand under the table and nod along to whoever's speaking, his trembling fingers playing along with yours. They trace around your fingertips, they rub against your skin. You feel his fingers snake from your hand to your thigh, where he drums them against your skin, playing piano on your leg. You watch his legs bounce and his tongue wet his lips over and over again, and you just wish he'd stop...stop worrying about his place in society, stop doubting his value. To you, he is all you see. He is the black, starry tarp spread across the backs of your eyes when they flutter shut before you drift away into rest. He's the soft, cloudy dreamscape that sparkles around you when you finally fall into sleep. There could never be anyone else but him.

♡ Pierre's got work to do, for sure. Maybe he'll never be fully comfortable or fearless in front of crowds that only see him as childish brute, careless oaf. But he's at least got you to calm his raging storm. You help quell his screeching nerves just by sitting next to him and allowing his hand to squeeze your thigh or play with the rings on your fingers. You're there, and that's enough.

[ethereal-maia]

I HAVE TIME TO WATCH MY SHOW YAYY

[madeleineengland]

War and Peace (2016)

[nixonyaoi]

anthony hopkins as Pierre bezukhov in war and peace (1972)

[safirefire]

“Outside of the song, Lamar has never been accused of any form of domestic violence. [x]” ok thanks bbc I can completely ignore drake now

[istanblogs]

Brotherhood is about feelings, not only blood relative.

Grantchester - Sidney and Geordie

Poldark - Ross and Dwight

War and Peace - Pierre and Andrei

Tudors - Henry and Charles

Victoria - Albert and Ernest

Peaky Blinders - Thomas and Arthur

Bridgerton - Anthony and Benedict

Titanic - Jack and Fabrizio

Pride and Prejudice - Darcy and Bingley

[empirearchives]

Nobody:

Me:

[thebirdandhersong]

Watching the movie I've been wanting to watch for months and lads. Lads. It's true. The boys really ARE in the boat.

[tlbburke]

As if filming Musketeers wasn't enough, during the start of S3, Tom was also filming WAP. Now Musketeers was always good vs evil, but S3 was more: wrapping up for sure, but also finding happiness within. Nearly every episode has a little story of someone finding some sort of internal peace or happiness. Even nasty Feron 😪. Watching WAP again, I wonder how much inspiration the writers of Musketeers took from Tolstoy's classic?🤔

Credit to creators

[always-andromeda]

Pierre for cherry jubilee with a secret relationship trope? Maybe reader is one of his maids or something?

– 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐟𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫

𝐏𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐡𝐨𝐯 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: it took me a second to see our boy having an affair with a maid bUT HEY, I GOT THERE EVENTUALLY.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (MDNI), p in v sex, power difference, but Pierre is a sweetheart about it, nothing else I can think of!

It was only meant to happen once. At least that's what you told yourself before you found your lips pressed against those of the man who employed you; the man who could ruin your life with a single word if he saw it fit. He could tell you to leave his estate at once; that it was improper for such a beautiful thing to be attending to his every need and tempting him so much. The aging and widowed count didn't need another scandal grasping onto the coattails of his family name.

He knew better. You knew better.

Yet...upon the occurrence of that first kiss...you found yourself falling. Slowly and gently, almost like a feather from one of his pillows that you just been fluffing moments before. Moments before Count Bezukhov's hands had found the sides of your body, making you jump. Moments before you turned, gave him an apologetic grin, and explained, "I'm terribly sorry, Count Bezukhov. I was only preparing your bed," To which the man simply stared back, eyes wide and unblinking as if you were some sort of mystical creature that he was shocked to find in his quarters. You continued nervously, "I guess I should be on my way now. Goodnight, Count Bezukhov."

That was when his hands found your wrists and held them tenderly. Though he was taller and probably could've easily overpowered you...he didn't. He didn't even have to try. Because as soon as he opened his mouth, you just knew that you'd stick around to hear what he had to say.

"Don't call me that. Much too formal."

"Then what shall I call you?" you asked with doe eyes staring directly up at him.

"By my name, of course," he replied with a soft smile.

You nodded. Because what else could you do when his hands started to wander to your upper arms?

What else could you do when he added in a voice just above a whisper, "And...don't say goodnight. Not just yet."

You nodded again, only to be met with his cursed mouth, pressing a chaste but yearning kiss against yours. He's searching for something. Something he'd missed with the other women who temporarily caught his fancy. It is in that moment that you realize that what Pierre craves is romance and, to an extent, spontaneity. Being one of his maids, you've gathered enough about him to know that his wife had never given him that kind of affection.

In a way, you felt sorry for the poor man by the time he pulled back, already muttering his apologies for his inappropriate behavior. You felt so sorry for him, in fact, that you brought him back in before he could even think up a decent excuse or ethical dilemma.

One kiss became two, which then became three, and before too long, you'd lost count of the amount of kisses Pierre plants all around your face, your jaw, your neck, your shoulders. It's unspoken that you're willing to go along with this change in pace.

There's no hesitance or guilt when he pushed you back onto his marital bed, immediately hiking your skirts up and letting them gather at your hips.

Then you heard him ask, "Are you ready?"

You could've laughed at how much his tone contrasted his position above you. It reminded you that as big and as powerful as he was, he's still the soft-spoken Count who struggled to even raise his voice at his staff, lest he be known as another one of those unfeeling, uncaring elites he despised so much. As much as Pierre wanted, he would never take what he shouldn't. No, with his cock slotted between your folds, he asked for explicit permission; like a proper gentleman.

"Yes, of course," you answered quickly, like it's the most natural thing for you to give him.

That is when he allowed himself to take. He started with the tip, adjusting to the overwhelming pressure from your cunt before pushing nearly all the way in. Pierre took you in a way that made him want to be disgusted with himself.

But you're so warm and tight. If it didn't feel so wonderful, he'd think he was in hell. Every bit of mounting pleasure made him feel like he was sinking further and further into the devil's great big melting pot. Your heels jabbed into his lower back like pitchforks. Sweat formed on his brow. It all served as a reminder of how he shouldn't be doing this.

Until your pants grew higher in pitch and he felt practically every muscle in your body tighten around him.

"Hold onto me, I've got you...I've got you–" Pierre choked out. He knew in the back of his mind that you didn't need the reassurance with how your fingers were already raking up his spine. But he liked it. He liked how you whined in response. How you were squirming and shaking underneath him and completely at his will as he let out every ounce of frustration and desire that he normally isn't allowed to express.

Right before he can hit the bottom of the devil's cauldron, he pulls out of you and bursts straight through the ground; back on earth once more. He stayed on you for a second longer, his head resting on your chest as he breathed in the scent of your skin. He'll never get sick of it. 

He lifted his head and gazed down at you in that faded, dizzy kind of way that he always does. Like he's lovesick. If you weren't already beginning to feel sore, you'd giggle at how just a single orgasm wrecks him so completely. It doesn't surprise you, not really. After all, pity was part of the reason why you struck up this agreement with him; pity is the reason why you played this little game with him every single time.

It was only supposed to be one time, you told yourself. But it was so easy to get entranced in him. Especially when he leaned down and gingerly kissed the tip of your nose before getting off of you and assisting you with arranging your skirts back in place. It was a testament to how strangely polite he was with all of this despite how terribly improper it all was.

"Make sure you aren't seen by anyone else," he warned as you got ready to return to the servants quarters. Though the warning doesn't mean much anymore. You've disappeared in the middle of the night enough times at this point that you're sure everyone you work alongside knows. And if he weren't so sweet, bidding you goodnight and everything afterwards, maybe you'd care more. Maybe you'd feel a hint of guilt.

But you don't. Even knowing that this wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last, you feel nothing but the ache of him between your left and a self satisfied radiance knowing that out of all the people in the world for Count Bezukhov to be fixated on, he chose you. And you're glad that this wouldn't be the last time he would.

[danosrosegarden]

that fateful night - pierre bezukhov x fem!reader headcanons (NSFW) ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

{kinktober: day twenty two. prompt: virginity. 🎃}

{contains: anxiety surrounding sex, very mild descriptions of penetrative sex, and pierre generally being a sweetheart to you. <3}

☽ It seemed like a given: you would wait until you were wed to be intimate with Pierre. You didn't feel pressured by the searing hot, disapproving glare of God, you simply desired something special. And truth be told, lightning strikes of stomach-churning apprehension crackled through your body when you thought about sex.

☽ It wasn't as if you didn't want him. Quite the contrary. Your bones were simply coated in fear. Your blood was plagued. Molded and diseased by a ravaging dread. The dread when you thought of how it must hurt, how it might not live up to your expectations, the dread of feeling far too vulnerable and bare, even as his wife.

☽ Pierre thought you were an enchanting lady, the glimmering highlight of each party he appeared at. You were mysterious and spoke less than the more boisterous characters at the table, yet your fierce intelligence sweetened each word that dripped from your lips. He was determined to learn about you, find out about your goals, your hobbies, your aspirations, your dreams.

☽ Your dear friends had mouthfuls to say about your decision to accept his proposal, but their words melted away like slushed snow when you peered into his eyes, always sparkling with love and excitement to speak to you.

☽ All this to say, when that fateful night finally falls, Pierre would be a gentle and attentive lover, holding your hips with a loving grip as he'd rock into you and examine each and every change that twitched upon your face. He'd breathe in the intoxicating smell of each wrinkle of pleasure that creased your skin. He'd softly break your cupped hand away from your mouth. Don't do that. I want to hear you.

☽ He simply could not live with the thought of causing hurt to you in any way. He'd be slow, deliberate, tender, as he dragged in and out of you, doing anything he could grasp at to make you comfortable and feel safe with him.

☽ Life did feel safe with him, despite his tendency to overexcite himself and get into quarrels he had struggles getting out of. Even still, you had a lifetime of marital euphoria, slow, sleep-soaked mornings, and bliss-injected long nights to spend in his company. Your nerves had no reason to twist and buzz within your skin when you had Pierre by your side. He'd be there to hold, to comfort, to love passionately, wildly.