#Orlo x you

[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.

#is this techincally a drabble? #count orlo x reader #count orlo #count orlo fic #13atoms #fic #requested #this would've been half an hour back in the day #now it takes like 3 days #wild #If you have anything negative to say about the poem just know #I’ll kill this blog and then myself #ily requesting anon give me a shout if you want to be fwiends

[lya-dustin]

So here's a piece of that Osferth x reader I'm planning inspired by that gif about the oysters and that scene in the great where Catherine tries to seduce Orlo

The Oysters

Working title may change later

Gif by @myfandomprompts

You were going to hell for this.

But you have to do this or risk getting married off to some man old enough to be your grandfather.

Besides, Osferth was the king’s natural son and gentle and kind as one would expect of a godly man.

Osferth was handsome, and he was roughly your age and well-read and of good moral standing.

All the other young men you’d scared off this year paled in comparison to him.

And sure he was a monk, but some monks can marry and God did order Adam and Eve to be fruitful, so really this was just fulfilling God’s will.

Yes, God’s will. You were only doing God’s will.

This you tell yourself as you drink wine you pilfered from your father’s stores to wash down the oyster you just ate.

Nasty things, they hadn’t been so bad when you had them when visiting the coast, but your maid said they stimulated carnal desire and would aid you in your mission.

The two of you had also overhead him commenting on it when having a very awkward feast with your family.

Why couldn’t it be something else, like pastries, or fruits or anything that wasn’t seafood?

Would he even come?

Did you get the right room?

#osferth x reader #osferth #osferth x fem!reader #osferth x you #the last kingdom fanfic #ewan mitchell

[praxeus-13]

Could You Help Me Fix It?

(Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3)

Pairing: Dhawan!Master x Timelord!Reader

Word Count: 2800

Summary: You wake up after The Master went through your mind, and finally get a proper reunion with your spouse.

Warnings: A little bit of swearing? Possibly?

Tag list: @hopefulfuturenovelauthor @geocookie21

A/N: Fun fact! I wrote most of this while at an airport/on a plane :) Also, this is the last part of the main series, but I might do some more one shots from this AU in the future!

(Orlo gif because I love him)

You came to slowly, first becoming aware of voices surrounding you, as well as a hand gripping yours. Then you started to wake up a bit more, your brain remembering recent events as though it was putting a puzzle together, until you remembered.

You remembered.

Immediately, your eyes shot awake, giving you the view of the medbay ceiling. Unfortunately, that was not the exact view you had been hoping for. However you didn’t have to look far to find what you were looking for.

To your right, Koschei laid sleeping. He was sat in a chair, though his body was half draped over your side, his hands clasped around yours. You were smiling, and though you desperately wanted to talk with him, you let him rest for a few more moments and simply enjoyed the view. Finally, you used your free hand to stroke through his hair (it was new, to you at least, and oh so soft) while the one he’d trapped started to gently caress his skin. He stirred, his face scrunching up in a way you found adorable. Then his eyes opened, and you could tell as his mind was adjusting to the unfamiliar surroundings. You could tell the exact moment he remembered why he was where he was, as his eyes shot to your face and he bolted up.

“Y/N?” His voice held such a delicate vulnerability to them, an emotion of his that only you were privilege to witness.

“Koschei.” You replied with similar vulnerability, though you were more relaxed than him.

He didn’t waste another moment, climbing towards you quickly yet cautiously, clearly struggling to hold himself back from smothering you. On the other hand, all you wanted currently was to hold him in your arms, and be held in his in return. When he was close enough you collapsed into him, circling your arms around his torso and holding on as tight as possible, immediately he did the same. Your faces were buried in each other’s necks and neither of you were planning on letting go anytime soon.

Faintly -somewhere in the back of your mind - you noted several pairs of footsteps and voices nearby, though you didn’t pay them any notice. You must have started crying at some point, as your face and your lover’s neck were wet. Reluctantly, you pulled back in order to wipe your face dry, though Koschei beat you to it. His hands were rougher than the rest of his skin, callouses on his fingertips most likely from TARDIS maintenance. You loved them though, they felt right to you, all of him was perfect. Two centuries without him had left you yearning for him, for his touch, and now that you had it- had him- you would never let go again.

You were still crying, the tears wouldn’t stop coming, but you were grinning wider than you had in a very long time. He was the same, tears rolling down his face as he looked at you with a beautiful mix of awe and love. Hesitantly, still worried that this was all a dream and you would wake up back in that hell, you reached forward to stroke some tears from his face. Luckily he didn’t disappear, instead melting into your palm as he looked at you with such love.

He was different to how he had looked when you last saw him, obviously having regenerated as you had, though he was still so obviously Koschei. You’d missed him so much that your mind was a mess, not just because of Rassilon’s meddling, but having him right in front of you after waiting for so long made it difficult for your mind to decide what to do. However, it seemed your husband was not having the same problem, as he leaned in and caught your lips with his.

The kiss was messy and wet, but it was perfect. You’d kissed him a thousand times before of course, but this was your first kiss in this body, with him in his new body. It felt so surreal, so comforting, like the two of you were made for each other. He was what you’d needed all these years, and now you had him.

You couldn’t tell how long the kiss lasted, you couldn’t tell how long the two of you had been wrapped around each other, it may have made you a lousy excuse for a Time Lord right now, but all you cared about was Koschei. Once your respiratory bypasses started to kick in, the two of you separated only enough to catch your breath. Then your husband used two of his fingers to guide your chin up so you were looking him in the eyes.

“I love you.” He’d told you that a thousand times before, but you never got tired of hearing those words from him.

“I love you too, and I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, I never stopped searching, I never gave up hope I swear.”

“I could barely remember you, but I knew that you would find me one day.”

He kissed you again, short and sweet this time, though no less passionate. Then Koschei shifted so that he was leaning back against the wall the bed was pressed against, while you were sitting in his lap, both of you continuing your tight grips on each other.

You felt safe and content, though that feeling was momentarily broken by an unsubtle cough from elsewhere in the room. Both slightly startled, you and Koschei looked over to where The Doctor was stood with her latest humans, Dan and Yaz if you remembered correctly.

“Hi Theta.” You greeted your old friend.

The two of you had gotten off to a rough start, back in the Academy Theta had been jealous of you, had seen you as a threat to his and Koschei’s friendship and had tried once to separate the two of you. However, Koschei had been rather adamant that the two of you get along, and you had slowly befriended Theta.

Over the years that friendship had weakened but never died. You were by your husband’s side throughout everything, of course, but you were never above helping or thanking Theta when you saw fit. He - or she now, you supposed - had always returned the favour.

“Good to see you again, Y/N.” She nodded her head at you.

Koschei’s grip tightened around you, and you relaxed further into him, reassuring him that you had no intention of going anywhere away from him.

“Hungry?” The Doctor half-yelled, giving you the impression that this was a rather socially-awkward regeneration of her’s (more so than usual).

“I could eat.” You nodded at her, though your eyes were focused on Koschei’s hands as they held your own.

“Great!” Theta clapped her hands together, “I’ll just go make something for you then!”

You may have been surviving on scraps of whatever you could fine for the last two centuries, but you knew you would never be able to stomach Theta’s cooking. However, Yaz must have seen the panic in your face.

“Don’t worry, she’s banned from cooking, Dan and I’ll make something for you.”

And then, you and your husband were alone again.

“How are you, my love?” He asked.

“Tired, hungry, but very happy.”

He hummed at your answer and pressed his face into the nape of your neck.

“That’s good, just rest now, I’ll wake you when food comes.”

And so you did, falling to sleep was surprisingly easy when you were safe in your lover’s arms.

——

“- gonna have to tell them at some point.”

“I will, didn’t you hear me? Just not right now.”

As you slowly came to once again, you could hear the all-too-familiar bickering of Koschei and Theta.

“Mmfph, shhh, I’m still trying to sleep.” You grumbled at them, keeping your eyes shut in hopes you could hold onto sleep.

Your plan was quickly foiled by your husband, who decided to start peppering your face with kisses, causing you to open your eyes so you could see as you tried to push him away. Of course, you didn’t want to actually push him away, you wanted to hold him close and never let go.

“Morning, my love.” He greeted you once he decided he’d kissed you enough.

“Morning. What were you two bickering about this time?” You queried, eyeing The Doctor, who was currently pretending to examine medical equipment in hopes to make herself disappear - obviously still uncomfortable with blatant displays of affection.

“Nothing you need worry yourself about, my darling.”

The look he gave you was contrary to the statement, and you knew that he’d tell you what it was about later - when the two of you had some privacy.

The Doctor coughed, gaining you attention “Hungry? Yaz is cooking breakfast right now so I can go and get you some if you’d like.”

“That’d be great, thanks.” You told her, and she nodded in reply, swiftly exiting the room with one more meaningful glance at Koschei.

Your husband completely ignored her, instead opting to climb into the bed behind you so that your back was held against his chest. You hummed in appreciation, tilting your head back into his neck.

“Going to tell me what she was on about now?” You asked in a playful tone.

“Mmm, The Doctor wanted me to update you on what I’ve been up to while we were separated - mostly the more recent events.”

You didn’t reply verbally, instead sending him a mix of curiosity and reassurance telepathically.

Koschei sighed, then held you even closer, before he spoke. “I destroyed the cities of Gallifrey, all of the Time Lords and most of the regular Gallifreyans - I may have gotten a Shobogan or two, but they weren’t my target. “

“I sort of presumed you would one day, what with your history of destroying planets.” You half-joked.

Honestly the loss of your home didn’t hit you hard, you’d never been close with your family and they’d disowned you centuries ago for choosing to stay loyal to your husband. You were more surprised that the planet was still standing, that he’d only targeted the Gallifreyan settlements.

“I suppose the question to ask is, why?”

“When I regenerated into this body I took a trip to Gallifrey to look for you again, it’d become habit whenever I regenerated. I decided to have a look through the Matrix, I spent days there, endlessly searching through all the files. I didn’t find any trace of you, but I did find something else.

The Time Lords lied to us, about our very creation. I’ll share the memories with you when you’re feeling better, but the short story is - they stole regeneration from a child. Experimented and forced a child to regenerate over and over until they finally understood, until they replicated it themselves.”

As he was talking you noticed how upset and angry he was, and subtly sent him a wave of calm and understanding in your minds.

“That child was Theta. The Time Lords took her memories an unknown amount of times and forced her to regenerate over and over… I had to destroy Gallifrey, the Time Lords had caused too much harm, the drums, your memories, the wars. Our very existence is built on the suffering of a child. Gallifrey had to die.”

You shifted in his arms so you were able to face him properly, so he knew you were truthful when you said “I understand.”

He pulled you in for a proper hug, and you felt his relief and love wave through your mind. Admittedly, you weren’t too upset with the loss of your home planet. It hadn’t felt like home for many, many centuries - not helped by the whole of Time Lord society outcasting you.

I’m with you through everything.

——

Much to your dismay you were forced to stay in the medbay for two more days before you were released, as both The Doctor and Koschei had insisted on ensuring your mind was okay. In the end it wasn’t too bad, as you spent most of the time cuddling Koschei, but you still felt the need to complain a little as it would have been nicer to cuddle with Koschei on your own TARDIS. Once you were finally let out of the medbay you were eager to leave, it’d been great to see Theta again, and her friends were nice as well, but all you’d wanted to do since you got your memories back was curl up in the library of your TARDIS and catch up with your husband.

Yaz and Dan had been very kind throughout your stay, even if it was obvious that they were a bit wary. Yaz especially seemed to steer clear of your husband, and you’d added it to your list of questions about what he’s been doing during your separation. Still, both of them were stood in the console room with you as you were preparing to say your goodbyes.

“Thank you for everything Doctor, truly, and thanks to your TARDIS for actually finding me.” You gave one of the pillars a little pat, getting a whirring noise and a brightening of lights in response.

The Doctor smiled at you almost bashfully, rocking back and forth slightly on her feet. “Anytime, I’m glad you’re safe and well.”

Koschei hummed and snaked his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him. He wouldn’t thank her, not in front of the humans, but The Doctor knew he was grateful. You’d probably convince him to send her a gift at some point in the future.

“Yasmin, Dan, it was nice to meet you both.” You nodded at them.

“You too.” Yaz replied with a smile, while Dan simply nodded his head back.

Your husband started pulling you away from them and towards the doors, clearly deciding that it was time to leave, causing you to laugh a little.

“Alright, we’ll probably see you around, thanks again for everything.”

Koschei opened the doors and dragged you out while you waved goodbye, still laughing at his antics - stars you’d missed him.

“You’re too polite sometimes my love.” He told you in between kisses once The Doctor’s TARDIS doors were closed.

“Well one of us has to be.” You snarked, before kissing him back enthusiastically.

A few minutes later the two of you stumbled into your TARDIS, still love-drunk on each other’s kisses. When you finally moved your gaze away from your lover you grinned wider. The TARDIS interior wasn’t exactly the same, you hadn’t expected it to be, but it was still very similar to how it had been two centuries prior (at least for you). It was a little messier, papers and books strewn out all over the floor, but you’d grown accustomed to how messy Koschei could be when he had a project going on. Looking closer at the papers and books you realised that the project on the floor had been his attempt at finding you. Maps of different sectors of the universe were dotted around the place, many of them having various markings and writing on.

A tear ran down your face and jolted you from your observation, you hadn’t even noticed you’d teared up. Koschei was already wiping the tear from your face, though another fell soon after. In your mind you projected your emotions to him, your upset, your love, to make sure he knew just how much you appreciated and loved him.

——

Hours later the two of you were curled up in the library - which hadn’t changed in the slightest - curled together in front of the fire. Koschei had helped you bathe and fully clean off the filth from your previous residence earlier, giving you a haircut afterwards. Then you’d gone through your shared wardrobe in order to find something more comfortable to wear, in the end settling on some casual smart trousers and a button-up shirt. You’d found one of your old coats as well, it was similar in style to The Doctor’s current one, though it was a dark purple with golden constellation patterns on the back, and it seemed that your TARDIS had altered it to your current height.

Now the two of you were simply enjoying each other’s company, something you’d both craved for centuries. As you held each other Koschei started to hum. It was an old tune, your tune, the first one you’d danced to on your wedding night. Your eyes started to close as you felt safe and completely content for the first time in recent memory. You didn’t feel worry as you started to drift into sleep, knowing that Koschei would keep you safe whilst you slept, and he’d still be there when you woke up.

“Goodnight my love, sleep well.” He whispered to you, placing a kiss upon your forehead.

You smiled, snuggled closer to him, and finally let yourself rest.

#dhawan!master x you #dhawan!master x reader #dhawan!master #the master x reader #the master #doctor who reader insert

[fanfickitchenette]

Friend of the Empress, Chapter Three

Orlo x Reader; Chapter Three-Rolling Balls and Finding Allies

Previous Chapter

You wake and consider the night before and what the future will be like in your friend's court once you are gone. Also, your translation skills need some serious work because what even?. You start to see the way of things and decide to stack the deck in Catherine's favor.

Note: if the word is underlined then that means you're hearing the word in Russian (which is not your native language) and you're not sure what it translates to. It just happens to be written in English here.

*no warnings I can think of for this chapter* BUT

TAGS for the story as a whole–eventual smut; talk of death, murder, SA (none in the story, just discussion); canon-typical violence; strangers-friends-lovers; angst; lots of platonic love; slow-burn

Word Count 3.6k

Chapter Three: Rolling Balls and Finding Allies

You wake up to the curtains being opened in your room and a quiet voice calling your name. Dilara is standing at the side of your bed, watching, as you blurrily scrunch open your eyes. The bed is luxurious, and it is tempting to simply roll over and resume your sleep. But you remind yourself that this will be your first day, and Catherine’s, in the emperor’s court. You stretch slightly before sitting up and greeting your maid with a smile. Other than a bob of her head she is silent.

            For a moment the two of you simply regard one another—or, rather, you regard her, and she regards the linen on your bed. “Good morning, Dilara. I trust you slept well?”

            “Good morning and yes, my lady. My sleep was fine. How would you like to start your day? I can have breakfast brought in for you or I could help you dress first. Whatever you’d prefer.” She makes her way to one of the wardrobes and opens the door to it, taking quick, small steps around the length of the bed. You lean slightly back on your hands and watch her. Catherine’s lady’s maid at home, Barbara, would shake you awake if you slept in. You became very accustomed to her sharp gray eyes glaring down at you while she would reprimand you for sleeping past midmorning. And her efficiency extended to Catherine as well—the older woman herding your blonde friend away from the salon where she’d read for hours on end before Lady Joanna could come to reprimand her daughter for willfully flittering her days away. Neither you nor she were ever late to a tutoring session or dinner event under Barbara’s watchful eyes.

            You suppose, pushing the sheets away from your legs to swing your feet to the floor, that Dilara must be new to her post. Barbara was older than you and Catherine both, a woman in her thirties when you were a child. Maybe Dilara was not simply used to being a lady’s maid yet. She seems to be barely twenty by a day, if that even. You decide that you will wait and see if she becomes more comfortable with you before you push her on it. Her silent attitude may just be a Russian custom for lady’s maids that is not familiar to you.

            “I’ll be fine to dress myself, Dilara. You could grab food and bring it to the room. Have you eaten yet?” She startles at this, and you can understand why. She isn’t used to the idea of spending time with you, instead rather waiting as the wallpaper waits for paintings to be hung upon it. Barbara, on slow days or early mornings, would break the fast with you and Catherine. It was something you enjoyed as it left the room feeling relaxed and you were able to go over the plans for the day at some ease. Lady Joanna frowned on it if it happened too often, but you are not Lady Joanna.

Taking a few steps from your bed to look out the window, you can see that there are plenty of servants flocking across the courtyard and grounds, military men standing and chatting by various pillars. The sun looks as if it has just stopped touching the horizon. With such movement at an early hour, you doubt Dilara would have had much time to eat before joining you. You glance back at her, standing on the opposite side of the bed as you, once again she just watches with wide eyes and thinned lips. “Have you eaten, Dilara?”

“Bread and water when I woke.” You nod in response, keeping your gazes fixed. This might be the first time she has not looked away immediately.

“And when did you wake? With the sun or before?” She hesitates to answer, shifting slightly.

“I believe,” Dilara answers, eyes still holding yours, “I woke about an hour or so before dawn. The candles burned down almost two notches by the time we blew them out with the rising sun. I help in the kitchens in the morning and stack items on the lawn for the afternoon court entertainment. Does this please you my lady? Did I not come to wake you soon enough?”

You shake your head in denial, wondering about the entertainment but putting a pin in it for now, “No, this time if perfectly fine. I enjoy sleeping in. I’d like you to bring a selection of food up with cutlery for two, if you would. I will dress in your absence.” You are glad she inadvertently mentioned that you might be spending time outside. You should be able to pick an outfit for sitting on the lawn. Maybe you will pack a book in a small handbag to carry with you as the ‘entertainment’ is unspecified.

Dilara dips you a curtsy but seems unwilling to go, “Are you expecting company, my lady? Should I ready the receiving room before I go?” So, you must be specific. You wonder if no Russian woman eats with her lady’s maid. It’s not as if you are going to the stables to eat with the serving men. Dilara will be your confidant by situation, and you intend to treat her as such.

“No, the second set will be for your use. I’m hoping to discuss the plans for the day and any upcoming events I should know about. I’d much prefer to do that while sharing a meal if we aren’t rushed for time. And could you possibly bring a selection of jams along? I’ve heard good things from my late uncle about some of the choices that Peter the Great had in his court for food and I’ve wondered if this emperor has kept up the same in his kitchen.” Again, she curtsies but says nothing else and swiftly departs. She looks over her shoulder twice, as though anticipating something that you can’t put a name to.

You attempt to shrug off her behavior and move to the wardrobe that Dilara opened. As you riffle through the dresses you brought (you only have enough to fill one wardrobe, not even touching the second) your mind drifts to your friend and the letter-writer in turn. You didn’t request to eat with Catherine as you imagine she and Peter will both need a lie in. Your mother was mostly tight-lipped on the subject, more of a realist who refused to sugarcoat her beliefs when she did speak, but she did tell you that there’s a period of time where recently married couples stay in their rooms more, sleep in later in the mornings and retire earlier at night. You’ve since put together that means vigorous rounds of sex in the beginning of a marriage. You do wonder at why it stops, if it’s as wonderful as some poets and Lady Joanna make it out to be.

You also wonder when you’ll be able to get Catherine alone and ask her about it. Maybe the two of you could have lunch together, privately, and discuss how it was. Was it earth shattering, was it all fumbling and awkward but turned passionate and all-consuming? Either way, you try to ignore that part of you that wonders if it was awful. If Peter’s disinterest in your friend would transfer to coolness in the bedroom.

You start to undress from your nightclothes, letting them pool at your feet as you pull the strings between your breasts that hold it tight. You’ve picked out your dress and shift for the day, a cool slate grey color that you’ll pair with a corset decorated with patterns of climbing ivy. The cut of the dress and bustle is elegant enough but shouldn’t be too garish for an afternoon on the lawn. You walk, barefooted, to the living room where the mirrored desk sits. As you work on managing your hair into the style you want it, which can be a long process depending on the day and need, your thoughts turn to the man who plagued your thoughts into sleep the night before.

You wish you knew more about him, even a name would be helpful. You could have asked Lady Georgina or Lady Elizabeth last night, but something warned you not to. Information is power, you do know that, and if people knew you were asking about him they might be able to turn it against you. You have no idea how, it’s simply a question, but you do not want more attention on yourself while Catherine settles in as empress. You will only have so much time with her, and you will not squander it by allowing petty snakes to inject venom into the situation. Lady Joanna would have you believe she is a lady of her own unique grace, and she is in a way, but you know quite a few nobles who act just as carefully catty as she can. May God forgive you for thinking so of your friend’s mother.

But the letter-writer seemed to be different than the people who stood around him last night. You’re not sure exactly what it was, but there was something you found in his countenance to be more welcoming than most. If somewhat awkward, as well. If he truly is the one who wrote Catherine’s letter then maybe he can be of use and solace to your friend when you are to depart. You hope you are wrong, that it’s just your nerves, but you believe that she will desperately need people to lean on here. Maybe you can ask Dilara about the emperor’s advisors, if she knows anything about them. But how to phrase the question?

Your hair doesn’t need much work to cooperate today, and you are putting the finishing touches on it when Dilara returns. In her hands is a handsomely filled tray, heaping with fruits, breads, and meats. You notice that on the two plates stacked on the side, are little pots of what you hope are jam. She sits the tray on the larger table between your two lounges. You go over and sit. For a moment she watches, not sitting to join you, before you gesture for her to sit across from you. Dilara does so, slowly. She places a plate, a cup, and utensils in front of you. A pause. Then she does the same for herself.  You nod in satisfaction and pour yourself tea.

“So,” you snag some sausage for your plate, Dilara following your lead, “What do we have on the social calendar for this week?” Your maid, carefully adding some golden-orange jam to a biscuit, replies.

“Well, I believe that the emperor has a party planned in two days’ time.”

Dilara informs you of the party, of rolling balls on the lawn that the ladies do most afternoons (you wonder what the objective is, it surely can’t just be rolling them on the lawn), and she tells you what she knows about the company the emperor keeps. You should never have doubted how much she would know. Your father used to have servants listen into his business partner’s conversations when he left the room. He’d say that it wasn’t his fault that so many noblemen saw them as accoutrements and not humans with awareness. That theirs was the folly that brought him leads and investments that he would’ve never had otherwise. You suppose that there’s some moral greyness there but, listening to Dilara speak, you know he’s right.

Lady Elizabeth, whom you met last night, is the emperor’s aunt through the former empress. She has her hands on many people’s pulses, very aware and active in the goings on of the court. Apparently she treats her servants well, (when Dilara tells you this, the word she uses to donate herself and the other workers doesn’t sound like the one you were reading in the translation books. You wonder if it’s a local term for servant and the like. The way Dilara rushes through that point makes you not want to question her on it, so you decide to talk with Catherine about it later.) and is generally well-liked among the people in the palace. She’s also known to be a bit odd—not that Dilara calls the lady odd, but you hear the implication. You’re relieved to learn this about her, that she may be a person that Catherine might be able to go to.

Lord Grigor is a childhood friend of the emperor and remains his closest friend to this day. Apparently, you can expect to see him if you see the emperor and vice versa. Dilara mentions that Lady Georgina is also close to the emperor and you feel relief again. If the emperor counts a woman as a close friend then all may not be lost between him and Catherine. Dilara tells you of Velementov, a heavy drinker but he sends money from his pocket to families of fallen soldiers when he can, and of Archbishop Samsa who climbed the clergy ranks quickly. That he didn’t receive his calling from God until a later age, but that Dilara seems to like him more than some of the other noblemen.

You try not to rush her, and she finally gets to who you’ve been waiting to hear about. “And, of course, there’s Count Orlo. He’s from somewhere in the south, apologies as I’m not sure where exactly,” she takes the final sip of her tea, relaxed back into the lounge as you are, “But he’s been here about a decade. He served the former emperor, Peter the Great. Everyone used to talk about how clever he was, but it doesn’t seem like our current emperor likes him much. I remember, right before the old emperor died, he shouted something fierce at Emperor Peter for hitting the Count during a meeting. But I shouldn’t have mentioned that,” Dilara is immediately on guard, “Please, don’t take that anywhere, my lady. I’m sure Emperor Peter had his reasons for it,  and they didn’t realize I was in the room. It’s not something I should be talking about.”

Beyond the name of some ladies, she doesn’t speak much more about the court after that. It’s disappointing that she won’t speak more on Count Orlo, she’d gone on more about most of the others, but at least now you have a name and a little something about him beyond his writing abilities. Dilara asks if you’d like to go out onto the lawn now. You didn’t realize how long the two of you have talked but the sun, not quite at the highest position in the sky, has certainly risen a bit. You follow her out onto the lawn, after grabbing Tom Jones and a small bag in which to carry it. You appear to be early, and you settle at a table under the canopy to wait and take a moment to examine the grounds. They’re certainly lovely, rows of trees in an orchard across the field in front of you, a forest beyond the carefully cultivated hedges around the palace grounds. The green of everything is vibrant and the Russian summer seems to be a refreshing heat rather than an overwhelming burn.

You’re just considering pulling out your book when the sound of women laughing reaches your ears. The servants around you start pulling balls out of crates and drinks start getting poured before the ladies even arrive. Even though it seems like you won’t be getting a private lunch with Catherine today, you are excited to see your friend at the front of the flock of women as they approach. On her right side, holding her arm and smiling while another noblewoman speaks is Lady Georgina. You nod to yourself, hoping that Catherine has been cared for in your absence. Now it’s your turn to meet the ladies of court.

Catherine sees you and her face lights up from within. You walk out to meet her. The two of you hug, Catherine having extracted herself from Lady Georgina’s hold at your approach. You smile at the other ladies, giving a barely there curtsy—in greeting, not in deference—and a specifically broad grin to Lady Georgina. You hope she can tell how grateful you are for her accompanying Catherine. “Good afternoon, ladies. I apologize for not greeting you all sooner. But now that that error is rectified, I hear we will be rolling balls?”

A woman you don’t know, wearing a rose taupe dress, furred shrug and a wig that is sitting more like a hat than a wig, gives you a broad smile and laugh, “We will have to show you how it’s done, Miss…I’m sorry I did not catch your name?”

You notice Catherine look at her sharply but push aside your friend’s reaction to keep the peace, “Lady Y/n L/n. May I ask for yours and for the name of the person who made you that wonderful dress?” Clearly the right thing to say, the woman’s tan skin flushes and the other watching ladies join in cooing over the woman’s fashion. Lady Svenska takes your arm to show you the balls while Lady Georgina reclaims Catherine’s arm. You note Marial walking over to stand near Dilara and attempt to engage your maid in conversation. You also notices that Marial is the only servant trying to chat. You wonder why, as it must be mind numbing to work and not chat in order to pass the time.

Rolling balls on the line is….rolling balls on the lawn. It’s horribly mind numbing but worse is the murmur Catherine gives you in a passing moment, “They cannot read and do not seem to want to,” before a thin, bird-like woman starts telling a tale of a hat she imagined up. You have been there too long, far too long with Lady Svenska fishing for compliments and then dolling out water downed versions in kind where the two of you sit on a small couch, before Marial says something as the balls are fetched, once again.

“Empress, you seem tired. Might I escort you to your apartments?” Catherine is quick on to take up the offer and you move to join her when Lady Svenska lays her hand on your arm, rising in your stead.

“Marial, you speak out of turn. You must wait for the empress or one of the ladies of court to address you. You cannot just speak.” Lady Svenska glances at you, “You are lucky to receive a serf I already trained. I know not how Marial was assigned to the Empress.” You glance at Dilara, her eyes firmly stuck to the ground as that word pops up again. What follows is a quick exchange between Lady Svenska and Marial. The servant is bitingly funny, and you find yourself biting your lip to keep from huffing out a laugh. It wouldn’t do to upset the court during your second day there.

Catherine and Marial manage to leave nearly an hour before you do. Lady Georgina joining into a conversation with Lady Svenska that you cannot pull yourself from with any kind of tact. Dinner is an impending thing, and you wonder if you will be able to dine with your friend or if fate will keep you apart all day. By the time you tell Dilara you would like to go back to your rooms, your good feelings toward Lady Georgina have all but evaporated. She does not seem as casually cruel as the lady hanging onto your arm but the intelligence in her eyes worries you more. You now doubt that she would truly be someone to stand on Catherine’s side.

You follow as Dilara leads you back to your rooms. Once you sit down inside the receiving room, you have decided what your next course of action must be. As much as you miss your friend, only a day into your stay, there are more important actions to be taken. “Dilara, could you send a message to someone for me? To ask if they would join me for a chat after dinner?”

Your maid, any relaxation around you earlier fully gone, nods and keeps her eyes down as she responds, “Of course, Lady Y/n. I can send a guard or go myself if you would prefer. I would sup in the kitchens if you would not mind.” You need to understand what a serf is but wish to not make her more wary of you. You will not ask her.

“That would be fine. I will write a message to be taken with a guard, you need not do it. After you’ve brought up dinner then you may take your time in the kitchens. After that, please bring some snacks I can offer my guest. Something for us to drink, as well. The night is yours after that.” You walk into your bedroom, parchment and inkwell sitting on the shelves along with your books.

“Very good. Can I ask who your guest will be, my lady? So, I might find a good drink to bring up?” It’s information. Information that can be shared or sold but you doubt anything in these halls would stay secret long. And there’s nothing nefarious or improper about your request.

“I’d like formally meet Count Orlo, if he has the time.”

#catherine the great #the great hulu #the great imagine #the great fanfiction #fanfic #count orlo x reader #orlo x reader #orlo is on the ace spectrum for sure #slow burn #friends to lovers

[hauntingcryptids]

Characters I Write For

BBC Ghosts

None for the moment because I don’t feel inspired, but I am working on past requests.

Doctor Who

All NuWho Regenerations of The Doctor

Canon Regenerations

Special Regenerations (Ex. Ganger!Doctor)

Alternate Universe Regenerations (Ex. Dhawan!Doctor)

All NuWho Regenerations of The Master

Canon Regenerations

Special Regenerations (Ex. Doctor!Master)

Alternate Universe Regenerations (Ex. Whittaker!Master)

The Doctor x The Reader x The Master (any NuWho regenerations)

All NuWho Companions

Good Omens

None for the moment because I don’t feel inspired, but I am working on past requests.

Our Flag Means Death

None for the moment because I don’t feel inspired, but I am working on past requests.

Stranger Things

Argyle

Robin Buckley

Jonathan Byers

Chrissy Cunningham

Steve Harrington

Eddie Munson

Nancy Wheeler

Steve Harrington x Reader x Eddie Munson

Miscellaneous Other Characters From Various Medias

Jareth The Goblin King from Labyrinth (Because this man is the blueprint!)

Loki from Marvel

Sylvie from Marvel

Peter Maximoff from X-Men

Joseph Quinn Characters That Aren’t Listed Above

Prince Paul from Catherine The Great (I still need to watch it, but you can send me some ideas)

Arthur Havisham from Dickensian (I still need to watch it, but you can send me some ideas)

Enjolras from Les Misérables (I still need to watch it, but you can send me some ideas)

Tom Grant from Make Up

Ralph from Timewasters

Sacha Dhawan Characters That Aren’t Listed Above

Doctor Valentine from Allelujah!

Doctor Sharma from Dracula

Count Orlo from The Great

Manmeet from Outsourced

No requests for the moment just because I don’t feel inspired right now, but I am working on past requests.

If there is a character that you are curious if I write for that isn’t on this list, please message me or send me an ask!

I am also going to list my Requesting Rules here. Please read those before requesting!

#ghost's posts #characters I write for #doctor who #doctor who x reader #the doctor x reader #the doctor #the master x reader #the master #stranger things #stranger things x reader #argyle x reader #chrissy cunningham x reader #nancy wheeler x reader #robin buckley x reader #jonathan byers x reader #steve harrington x reader #steddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #jareth x reader #jareth the goblin king #labyrinth x reader #loki #loki x reader #sylvie #sylvie x reader #x-men #x-men x reader #peter maximoff x reader #tom grant x reader #tom make up x reader

[chocolatepot]

I'm sad that The Great doesn't have a ton of Catherine/Marial fics (though not terribly surprised), but I LOVE that we're all in love with Orlo. I'm not reading any "x you" or "x reader" fics but I deeply appreciate that we all have the right priorities.

#niche sacha dawan opinion: neville should have gotten with rosa in edwin drood #the great

[khonjinhouse]

Orlo + lost desert paint brush

@parables-for-days

Orlo be upon you!!! x)

#oc art #answered #orlo #he gets his own tag because i love him

[noforkingclue]

Hi may I requested a Count Orlo x reader where she is a vampire type like the ones in Interview with a vampire. Where reader family comes to court to visit her, calling Louis father lestate uncle Claudia sister with them being protected of reader. Everyone think they are weird but Orlo finds out the truth. Please and thank you u don't have to, message me if u want something clear up

Sorry but I don’t write for count orlo

[locksmith-unit-orlando]

[moon-in-daylight]

Stay the night / Count Orlo x reader

Summary: It’s the evening before Catherine’s birthday, and knowing what her plans for the special day are, you have to decide whether if you warn Orlo or not.

Words: 2.2k

A/N: So remember over a month ago when I said I wanted to write Orlo fluff? Well, I wasn’t able to write it until recently. I didn’t edit this and I’m posting it at 2 am so forgive any typos that you may find. I’m just really impatient once I finish writing something and I really can’t wait to share it 😂 Also, thanks to the anon that sent this because it practically gave me the whole idea for this fic. Sorry for the delay 😅

Orlo’s mellow voice echoed through the empty room as he read aloud for the both of you. Written words came out of his tongue naturally, as if he was the one choosing what to say instead of just reading the thoughts of another person. He had that gift of making the most boring writings sound like poetry when he read them for you. You were sure that even the dullest treaties he had to redact for Peter would sound delightfully sweet, if he was the one reading them.

The loving tone he used when he knew you were listening, the dedication he put into every sentence, reciting every word with a passion you had rarely seen in any other man at court… As you leant your head on his shoulder, you wished you could enjoy the soothing sound of his voice just like you used to do every night. But, much to your disgrace, this wasn’t just any other night.

Maybe it was for Orlo. As far as you could tell, he was oblivious to all the chaos going through your mind. And you wished you could be as well as you tried to focus on the way he took and released the air around you as he spoke.

He didn’t have the slightest clue, but tomorrow would be a decisive day for the two of you. Not only for the two of you. The whole of Russia could be marked forever by the events that were to come. Tomorrow was Catherine’s birthday, and as one of her most loyal confidantes, you had been chosen to carry the burden of knowing what her plans for the day were.

You had thought that she was joking at first when she told you that she was pregnant, and you even laughed when she let you know that all she wanted as a birthday gift was her husband’s head on a silver plate. But you froze when you realized she was being as serious as ever since she had arrived that godforsaken excuse of a court. She was determined to take the step, to finally kill Peter and take his place the next morning. Seeing the passionate way she spoke of the events that were to come, you knew nothing could have make her change her mind.

It wasn’t that you weren’t glad that Peter was about to get what he deserved. You hated him with every fiber of your being and you couldn’t wait for the moment that he paid for everything he had done to your country, that was why you had chosen to take part in her coup and drag Orlo into it as well. But as the moment of taking the final step approached, you couldn’t help but torture yourself with all the horrible outcomes your plans could bring.

If the coup failed, a quick public execution would be the most desirable destiny for you. Your body trembled when you thought about the physical tortures and punishments you would be subjected to if Peter identified you as one of the plotters. But that worry you felt for your well being didn’t even compare to what you felt when you thought of what losing Orlo would be like.

Orlo had been your friend for years, and now that your relationship was finally developing into something more, you couldn’t bare the thought of losing him. For years you had been meeting in the library at the most remote times of the day, sharing his company and a decent book in the dim light of candles being all you needed to clear your mind of the idiots you had to deal with at court. He had been the most important person to you ever since you had arrived that awful place, the only person that had showed to you some real, uninterested kindness.

You hadn’t been able to avoid developing deeper feelings for him almost immediately, but thinking that he wasn’t interested in you, you had kept them a secret for years, hoping that way you wouldn’t lose your closest friend. You had felt utterly stupid when, after coming back from his unfortunate trip to the front, he had decided to tell you what he truly felt for you in an act of alcohol-induced bravery.

Only a few weeks had gone by since you had gotten together, and honestly not much had changed in your relationship. You still did the same things you had always done. You talked for hours on end, share any and every interesting book or quote you read with each other, go for a walk through the palace gardens… The only difference was that you no longer had to hold yourself back when you felt like grabbing his hand or giving him a little peck on the lips.

It felt as if you had been wasting your time all those years, and you weren’t ready for what you both had to be over. Catherine’s birthday could mean the end of everything you actually enjoyed about that place, because even if you succeeded in getting Peter out of the throne, there was still a high risk that either you or Orlo had to sacrifice your lives for the cause.

You hadn’t mind dying back when you had first joined the coup. Back then, you didn’t have anything to hold on to and you wouldn’t have mind to give your life for a greater good. Now that you had Orlo by your side, you were scared of losing the one good thing that you had.

For the first time since you could remember, you were terrified.

His voice seemed to be drifting away from you as you felt a sharp pain inside your chest. It wasn’t fair. You would never forgive yourself if something did happen to Orlo the next day. You would always remember that you had been to one to drag him into that situation.

“Orlo…” You called his name in a low tone, immediately gaining his attention as he looked away from the book and right back at you.

You wanted to apologize to him. To tell him just how terrified you were and ask him to run away with you far away from that palace, move to another country if needed. You had more than a bad premonition about the following day, and your heart pounded in your chest as you struggled not to share those anxious thoughts with him.

This could be the last night that you got to spend by his side. He seemed so blissful there, reading to you. So calmed and unaware of the horrible thoughts that clouded your head… You couldn’t tell him, you couldn’t make him carry that burden too. Orlo deserved every second of happiness he could get, and you wouldn’t have been able to be the one bringing him bad news. He’d know about Catherine’s plans when he strictly had to, not a second earlier.

“Am I boring you?” He innocently asked as he put the book on his lap, trying to disguise his true fear of being boring with a kind smile and an amusing intonation in that question. He had slowly learned to become comfortable around you, vulnerable. But sometimes you could still see glimpses of old shy, nervous Orlo when his insecurities hunted him.

“Of course not.” The reassurance you gave him seemed to bring him back to that previous state of peace he had been enjoying during that whole evening. “I could never get bored of you.”

He didn’t need to give you an actual answer for you to notice his disbelief of your words. A simple, practically unnoticeable blush of his cheeks and the way his eyes immediately avoided looking directly at you were enough for you to notice the incredulity he still demonstrated at the thought of someone being able to love him.

“I hope you know I mean it.” You added, reaching his cheek with one of your hands and caressing it softly as you removed the book that still laid on his lap so you were the one resting above him instead.

Grabbing his chin carefully, you guided his stare so that it would meet yours, his chocolate brown eyes reflecting some of the dim light of the room. He had removed his characteristic glasses recently, and you weren’t quite accustomed to see him so… Naked yet. The absence of them allowed you to look into his eyes with no barrier in between, and though you had to admit you kind of missed that accessory of him, there was no comparison to what getting lost in his uncovered eyes felt like. You could get lost on them for hours.

Observing the way he stared back at you in deep affection and devotion, you even forgot about everything else going on for a second. For just that one moment, you could pretend everything was okay.

“Remember when we met?” Your fingers traced the outline of his jaw as you recalled the first time you had seen him.

“I got scared when I heard the door because no one else but me used to spend time here.” He evoked his memories of that first day too. “You were surprised when you saw me too. You were crying and you had run in here hoping you could be alone.”

“The Ladies here can be really mean.” You smiled at him as you remembered how you were affected by the comments of other people when you first arrived the palace. It had been long since you last cared about those things. Truth was you had stopped caring about the Ladies’ opinions once you had started to prefer Orlo’s nicer ones instead.

“I tried to comfort you.” Orlo kept relating the events of that day as he let his hands rest on either side of your waist, embracing you softly. “I didn’t know what to do, I felt so bad that you were suffering so pointlessly… I read some Descartes to you, because it always helps me to see things with perspective…”

“Conquer yourself rather than the world.” You recited one of the quotes Orlo had read to you, the one that had been printed in your mind since that day.

“I’m sure I bored you more than I helped you relax.”

“That’s not true.” You intervened again, refusing to let him indulge in his own negative perception of himself. “You helped me a lot. You didn’t have to, but you stayed with me until I felt better. No one else would have done that.”

When he looked away from you in embarrassment, you decided to draw his attention back at you by kissing him on the lips. He should have been accustomed by now, but he still froze for a few seconds every time you kissed him unexpectedly. Far from being bothered by it, you felt touched whenever you got that reaction from him, and you delighted yourself when you finally felt him moving his lips against yours one the initial shock was over.

It was those little things that had made you fall so deep for Orlo. Those were the things you were most afraid of losing. Thinking about the fact that it could be the last time you kissed him, you deepened the kiss as your fingers started to play with the few locks of hair that fell messily around his head.

“I love you, Orlo.” You whispered softly, quickly hiding your head in his chest. “Please, don’t ever forget that.”

It was inevitable that the tears started forming in your eyes, and you couldn’t hold them back anymore when Orlo surrounded your body with his arms. Bringing you even closer to him as he repeatedly kissed the top of your head.

“I love you too.” He muttered, the feeling of guilt while seeing you cry overcoming every shyness he could still have left. “I… I’m sorry if it sounded as if I don’t. You’re the most important thing to me and sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve you. I’m really sorry… Please, don’t cry…”

“It’s not your fault.” You quickly assured him, once again refusing to let him self-flagellate. “It’s okay.”

“What is wrong?” Orlo asked, trying to clean the tears that already felt down your cheeks as you silently calmed yourself. If you died tomorrow, you didn’t want that you crying was the last memory he kept of you.

“Nothing is, I promise.”

You knew you hadn’t sounded confident enough for him to believe you, but you weren’t able to tell him what was really going on. All you wanted was to enjoy that night with him and stretch it as long as you could in fears it was actually going to be your last. Cuddled against his chest, you wished for him not to ask anymore questions, fearing that you wouldn’t be able to keep the secret from him much longer.

His hands kept moving up and down your back as you tried to calmed yourself down.

“Is there anything I can do?” Orlo worriedly asked, still trying to help despite not knowing what the situation was. You had always admired that of him, his predisposition to help even when he didn’t know how.

Focusing on the calming rhythm of his breathing, you tried to find the right words to express what you needed without ruining this evening for him.

“Would you stay the night with me?”

“Of course. Anything you need.” He agreed, wrapping you tighter with his arms.

Accommodating yourself inside his embrace, you wished for a way to be able to stop time in that precise moment.

#Count Orlo x reader #Orlo x reader #Hulu's The Great #Sacha Dhawan #Hulu's The Great fanfiction #Count Orlo x you #Orlo x you #The Great #The Great fanfiction

[13atoms]

Blackberry Rum (Count Orlo x F!Reader)

Summary: After impersonating her father to continue running her beloved home region, a young woman finds herself with court summons, and on the wrong side of the most influential bureaucrat in Empress Catherine's new Russia.

Contains: Falling fast, politics talk, and a meddling, pregnant Catherine. Sort-of enemies to lovers, mainly Netflix Christmas Rom-Com level cheese. 

Tw: alcohol and food mentions | AO3 Link | Word Count: 10.7k

🖂 🖂 🖂 🖂 🖂 

You awoke with a groan, staring out at the sun as it fought weakly past the heavy drapes of your palace room.

Despite sleeping in a proper bed for the first time in several days, your spine felt no better, protesting at any movement after so long spent in a carriage. Your home in Dryansk felt very far away. It was one of the most impressive houses in your region, and paled in comparison to a simple bedroom here in St Petersburg.

It was cosier than the palace. Warmer, too. Quieter.

The palace was a place you had heard about your whole life, firstly as a place of great progress and knowledge, and lately as the seat of the greatest parties and anarchy seen in all of Russia. You had never had the pleasure of meeting Peter the Great, and it had been your intention to avoid any interaction with his son. The new Empress was an unknown force all together – young and German, supposedly volatile and emotional. Though you supposed that was how most great ladies were described by their adversaries.

And Catherine had plenty of those. They were usually squirrelled away, occupying manor house and villages across your small region, gossiping in unheard discussions over private dinner tables. You paid it very little mind – all that changed was the finances provided to the regions. Your own included.

Unfortunately, one especially stingy bureaucrat had forced your hand, driving you to the palace to negotiate in person. His latest correspondence had regrettably lodged itself permanently into your memory, recited even as you rolled from the oversized bed to the breakfast table. These were your quarters, but they were unfamiliar to you. You had never had any reason to visit them, until now.

The food was good. You scowled as you watched mist rising over the sea of pine forest surrounding you. A beautiful sight, which reminded you how far from home you truly were.

Catching sight of the paperwork littering the table, you recalled your summons.

I am rather concerned that this sum of money is so excessive, and wonder if it is intended for the supply of education at all. I will be conducting an audit of all funding requests to the region, in addition to examining the taxes returned. Following this, I would advise you travel to the Palace in person to review the outcomes.

As I understand it, it has been several years since your presence, and in that time you have missed the coronation of two leaders of Russia. I am sure you would like to meet the Empress, and she would be interested to understand what is happening in Dryansk.

Yours Sincerely,

Count Vassily Abramovich Orlo

In capacity as Royal Treasurer and Advisory for Her Royal Highness Empress Catherine of Russia

It was a stupid title. Men like him always had them. You could hear your tutor now, scoffing as he read the letter for the first time: “Something about them has to be long.”  

You sighed. Looked at the clock on the mantlepiece. Begrudgingly admitted that the jam on your toast was the best you had ever had.

Pushed down the growing sense of dread in the pit of your stomach.

Ten o’clock.

You had been told on arrival that was the time you were due to meet with the Empress’ treasurer. Regrettably, the treasurer also seemed to be her right-hand man, making your plans to appeal to her better nature seem rather inadequate.

If they were as close the conspiratorial messenger had implied then showing your hand, and admitting you were extracting additional money from the treasury to educate girls and the poor, would only secure your head on a stake.

You had forty-five minutes.

Half of the remaining time was spent bathing and dressing, quickened by the aid of mute serfs, who offered you nothing but nods and quiet smiles if you addressed them directly. It was a far cry from the cheek and banter of those back home.

It was a veritable stack of books which you gathered for your meeting with the treasurer. Historical accounts, written records of achievements of your region, and folders containing all correspondence for the last two decades with the palace. It was all ordered, and noted. Your private notebook contained a list of arguments for the funding, written in the carriage in fear that your mind might go blank at the confrontation.

Arguing and standing your own ground was not a skill developed in the quiet offices and libraries of your home.

You had left enough time to become lost in the twisting corridors, eventually relenting and asking a guard for direction as your arms began to ache from the paperwork. Some passing gave you strange looks, though you supposed it could as easily be a consequence of your unfamiliarity or your clothes, as of the documents you were carrying.

Finally, a deep breath, and knock on the door, and a sinking feeling stuck you. After a fortnight of worry, suddenly everything was happening rather quickly.

The bureaucrat hardly looked up from his writing as you were escorted in, leaving you to cross the room in silence before he laid his pen down, and looked up at you.

“I confess, I was anticipating your father,” he drawled.

You concealed a scowl. He did not extend a hand to shake yours, nor did he stand. It was a rudeness you were scarcely prepared for.

His desk was elevated above your seat just slightly, enough that what he was writing was concealed unless you craned your neck to its fullest. From the sharpness of his stare, you imagined it was an intentional decision. He was not an intimidating man in himself, so perhaps he felt these tricks helped.

You had to confess to feeling intimidated, as if being told off by an unimpressed tutor after failing to complete homework.

The books sad heavily in your lap, forcing you backwards, and the guard who had guided you in quickly fetched a side table. It was a considerate gesture, one you thanked him for, and received a small smile in return. Once the paperwork was moved aside, you looked back up at the Count. The ghost of a smile left on your face was quickly wiped away at his dour expression.

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

He sighed, barely concealing his frustration.

“Your father.”

“Oh! He sends his apologies, it was in his return letter, I believe. He is indisposed. I have been sent in lieu.”

His chin rested on his intertwined hands, head tilted up ever so lightly. You found the gesture pretentious. With heavy exhale, he closed the notes in front of him, letting the cover make a sound as it fell.

“And who are you?”

“His daughter. Oldest daughter. I act as a secretary. I believe we have exchanged some letters, on his behalf.”

Orlo raised an eyebrow.

“And on the Empresses’ behalf, for you, I imagine. Perhaps it would be easier if everyone wrote to one another directly!”

Your nervous laughter failed before it left your mouth. His head tilted slightly in thought as he fixed you with a stare, as if he was considering whether you were worth speaking to at all.

“The Empress is a rather busy running Russia, and I have been in this role for over a decade. Under three rulers,” he responded bluntly.

“Of course, sorry.”

“I wonder what your father’s excuse is for failing to respond to court summons.”

Looking towards your knees, you were horrified as you realised you were fighting back the heat of tears. Your voice was thick as you spoke.

“I can only apologise, sir,” his silence made you continue, hoping that with enough words he might begin to believe you, “I know only that he sent me in his stead. In truth, I fear he is more ill than he lets on.”

“Indeed.”

The room remained quiet for a moment, as you tried to calm your racing heart. Your palms were sweaty, and you tried to be subtle as you wiped them on your skirts, praying your nervousness would not further undermine you in the diplomat’s eyes.

“Shall we begin?”

You nodded mutely, reaching for the folder of correspondence if only to have something to do with your hands.

“You are here, on your father’s behalf,” his eyes flicked to you again, “in order to justify the financial requests you have made of the Palace. These requests have increased gradually across the last decade, to be far in excess of the requests made by similarly sized regions. In your last correspondence, you requested a ten-percent increase in financial support to ‘build schools’.”

He was reading from his notes as he spoke, sincere and far more serious than you had feared. This was not the light-hearted, cash-splashing government that your father had interacted with.

You gulped. He was clearly done, staring at you and waiting for your response.

Your voice shook, and you chose to stare at your own notebook to avoid the deep brown of his stare.

"The region suffers disproportionately to others, due to a lack of natural resources, meaning many do not earn enough to feed their families. Much of the land is unfarmable, and transport is made difficult by steep hills and valleys. I have looked at increasing the output of the region by building more roads, and in turn creating more jobs – ”

“You have?” The Count interrupted, and you struggled to get the words out in response.

“My family, sir, apologies,” You looked up briefly, checking he was content with your answer before continuing. He offered a small nod.

“We have begun construction of more roads, but the mining of materials is hard in the colder weather, and the workers must return home during the coldest months.”

You floundered, checking your notes for the points you had sought to make. You knew those notes would be a good idea.

“In building more schools, the Dryansk region can educate more of our young people, enabling them to compete with the likes of other great countries in Europe to earn with their minds. More doctors and educated folks will be a great asset to Russia, and – and, overcome the geographical limitations of our small region.”

He had raised his eyebrows, halfway through your small speech, making fear blossom in your chest that he doubted you.

“Did your father write that?”

“I’m sorry, sir?”

“What you just said. Did your father write it?”

“The ideas, of course, um,” you turned your notebook to show him, as if your father’s writing would be there, sure he could not read from such a distance.

“Well argued. Incorrect, though.”

Your heart sank.

“Incorrect?” You baulked at the suggestion, before quickly closing your mouth, adding a reluctant (and quieter) address. “Sir?”

“The principles make sense. In fact, I would encourage such activity, however the funding you have requested is not proportional to the changes you’re trying to make.”

You reached for your financial records, sliding the book from the pile beside you, but the Count kept speaking.

“It is the responsibility of the head of the province to provide public education, should they deem it to be an appropriate use of funds. The palace does not usually provide direct funding for such a thing, though exceptions have been made in the past. The money you are requesting is far in excess of what you need.”

“We have run the numbers, sir, and it seems that what I have requested is the minimum amount which will be required.”

You stood your ground, fear growing in your chest. If he questioned it again, perhaps you would abandon the whole stupid idea.

“There are fewer young men in your region than most. The war saw to that.”

You nodded, treading carefully as you spoke.

“The Emperor’s war with Sweden required a great many of our men, and they fought valiantly for Russia,” more quietly, you tacked on, “there are a great many women widowed and unmarried. Their own sacrifice for the war effort, I suppose.”

Orlo nodded sombrely. He didn’t meet your eye, focussing again on the papers in front of him.

“And yet, you feel the Empress should provide three times the funding one would expect for the education of ten-thousand boys?”

Ah. Plan over.

“My father felt that, perhaps, it could be beneficial to allow some girls to receive a limited education too.”

He fixed you with a curious look, genuine surprise crossing his face, and you fought not to sink back into your chair from the shame of it.

“I do not suppose that is true.”

His words were light, but he leant forwards, eyes flickering to your notebook before returning to your face.

“Excuse me?”

He leant back.

“I met your father. Lovely man. Not progressive in politics, though would always give food to the needy. I found that interesting. His home life was very private, too. I was not aware he had a daughter.”

The accusation was blatant. You couldn’t help laughing, gaining confidence as you moved to the front of your seat, closing the gap to argue.

“I assure you, I am certainly his daughter. How dare you –”

“I don’t doubt it. I checked your seals, they looked right. The signatures, too. So a talented forger, or someone who is in the household. Perhaps both.”

“You invited me here to accuse me of forgery, sir?” You didn’t hide your scowl, forgetting yourself as he laughed frustratingly.

“I invited you here to accuse you of theft, a charge I am not certain you are innocent of – though I am interested very much by the absence of your father.”

“More interested in his absence than what I have to say while present, it would seem.”

He laughed again.

“My apologies, I thought you were acting on his behalf?”

You stood, suddenly noticing the guard from earlier cross the room. He didn’t meet your eye, nor did he intercept you in any way. But he was close enough that the Count’s protection was clear.

“I am.”

He fixed you with a stare, and a knowing smile which made you nervous.

“From beyond the grave?”

You froze. Unbeknownst to you, the guard’s jaw dropped. He quickly righted it.

A wave of the Count’s hand sent him from the room.

Count Orlo stood, the barely-hidden grin on his face a clear indicator that he was damn proud of figuring it out. Feeling scolded, you sat, resisting the urge to pull your knees to your chest. Instead, you hugged your journal to your chest, staring up at him.

“Am I right?”

“Yes.” You choked out

You couldn’t meet his eye. Staring at the floor, the blood pounding in your ears made it hard to focus. Years of getting away with it, of progress, were tumbling down. Were you going to be sick?

“How long ago?”

“Three years.”

Orlo went still, leant forwards over his desk. Then he sank into his chair. All was silent, though the room sounded raucous in your panic.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

You didn’t acknowledge his words, too busy focusing on the ramifications of this. On whether you would ever leave the palace again. You ought to have risked ignoring his summons.

“It must be hard. I lost… my own father.”

He cleared his throat, seemingly surprised by the confession which fell from his lips.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you. It was a long time ago now.”

You nodded.

Orlo shuffled his papers.

“Did you… know that? Before I walked in?” You asked quietly, refusing to watch the bureaucrat. You feared most of all that he would be smug. He had caught you in a lie, after all.

“You were his only heir.” He stated, no hint of joy in his voice.

He was working something out. You could see cogs turning, a well-educated mind at work.

“There is no one else. There would have been an endless power struggle, and the workers would suffer… my father always planned to find an heir, though he trained me for the interim. I think he hoped it might never come to that. And then, the pox–”

Orlo raised a hand, and you were grateful that he needed no further information.

“You never informed the palace that he died?”

“No. It seemed… fine. I replied to the first letter, and it was accepted.”

“By me, I believe,” Orlo grimaced, pen poised to make notes as he listened.

You tried your best to look apologetic, though the risk of somehow startling the bureaucrat kept you from making any great movements.

“Yes, I believe it was. Apologies.”

He looked to you for more explanation. You rifled through the ordered correspondence, trying to explain what had happened.

“I had no intention of deceiving anyone. In truth, it is something of a mystery to me. My tutor, he is a brilliant man, very well read, and firmly believed I was in the best position to run the region. I really love it, despite the hardships, I know it is not the richest, and that we do not pay as much in tax as others our size, but the people… they would give everything to help another. I couldn’t fail them.”

Orlo set his pen down.

“So your tutor lied for you?”

Curiosity had surpassed all else, and the Count was so receptive to your story you could not stop yourself from telling it. It was a relief, in some ways, to lay your cards on the table before him.

“They all did. The whole household. A select few others. On my instruction, of course. None of them ought to be punished for this–” your words fell faster as panic caught your tongue, alarmed at the realisation those you loved most could face repercussions, but the Count waved those worries away.

“They will be fine.”

If he was lying, it seemed convincing.

“I did not mean for it to go on so long, I just… looked out and saw no better option.”

The stack of letters Count Orlo reached for were familiar, sealed and addressed in your own hand. He did not reread any, merely pressed a hand to the top of the stack as a remark on their quantity.

“Why did you want the extra money?”

It was a sobering question, and always seemed to be the bottom line for this man. He was a treasurer, so perhaps that was natural.

“Schools. I did not lie.”

“Schools for girls, as well as boys?”

“Yes. And the poor.”

“Your father’s idea?”

“My own, though he did express some support for the idea shortly before his passing, in his own way.”

Count Orlo nodded, peering at an open book on his desk.

“There are other requests. Some for your road construction?”

“Yes.”

“Some for the provision of new guard uniforms? Which must have been… very expensive?”

You winced.

“Forgive me, our guards are certainly not that well-dressed. There was… a famine. And I know the palace sent aid! However, people were starving. We could trade with regions to the south, but it was expensive –”

“Peter wouldn’t pay their prices,” he recalled, a faraway look in his expression.

“I was only aware that our promised food would not come.”

He thought for a moment, a judge considering a case, the closing of his book a gavel against the desk.

“I would have made the same choice, for my own region.”

You let out the breath you had been holding.

There was a calmness to it, the unravelling of your lie. He had more questions, you had incomplete answers. Eventually he was satisfied. You loathed to ask it, but the question remained:

“What now?”

“Hm?”

“Do you… do you have someone in mind to appoint to Dryansk? I will not protest. I’m sorry, I had never intended to lie, or commit any trespass against the crown –”

“I don’t see why your father would be uprooted from his position? Unless he should retire and assign you successor, though there would be some undesirable pushback from some, I would imagine. I am satisfied with the accounts, and congratulate him on the work he is doing.”

“Oh.”

You were floored. Count Orlo sank back in his chair, distractedly glancing out of the window as a flock of birds rose from the forest. Gunshots rang out, though none of the creatures seemed to have been struck.

“Your father will remain in place, with you as his proxy, then?”

“Yes! Thank you, sir. It… I cannot thank you enough.”

“Orlo, please. I assure you, no one here calls me ‘sir’,” the light laugh he gave was a little dark, and you wondered at the reason for it.

“Thank you, Orlo.”

You were ready to leave, stacking books back beside you, head aching from the meeting. Across the desk, the Count’s voice grabbed your attention.

“You are an excellent politician.”

You laughed.

“I am not sure whether to accept that as a compliment.”

A smirk escaped his stony expression, though it was quickly smothered by a stony face and a sincere tone.

“I intend it as one. You have a rare talent. And I think, a good heart. That is why I would never seek to displace you.”  

You looked at him properly, as the man behind the title and the piles of official documents. There was a humanity to him which escaped the formal tone of his letters. A kindness.

It confused you, and perhaps he could sense as such when he answered your stare with a statement. His eyes sought the doors for a moment, before meeting yours. He leant forward as though telling you a secret.

“I was… integral to the new Empress’ position. She’s a progressive, I think not unlike yourself. Educated. Believes that all women ought to be. She would like you, I think, and if a woman can be Empress, I do not see why you should not lead the region you were born to inherit. As any son of your father’s would have done.”

You swallowed. His words bore more weight than you could ever admit, belief beyond even your own in your right to lead.

“That is… an unusual stance. But one I share. Thank you.”

“I hope it is a belief that is growing more popular. I suppose our brains cannot be so drastically different, when each of your letters was so cleverly and concisely constructed to persuade me of your decisions.”

“You believed them to be from my father…”

“In intention, perhaps. But not verbatim. I could tell it was not him. Your father had appalling spelling.”

You laughed, making the Count laugh too, feeling a lightness in your heart which was rare since your father had died.

“And changing my mind is not an easy feat. I’m not sure your father ever achieved it, if you don’t mind me saying.”

You did not mind at all. It was nice to talk about him.

“You knew him well?”

“In later life, only through letters,” he sounded regretful, oddly sweet in how he answered you, “though we had met a handful of times when Peter the Great ruled. When I was barely past puberty, in fact. I believe he used to carry a hip flask of sweet spirits I was quite keen on, he would sneak it to me. It was… a simpler time. In many ways.”

He was wistful for it, and you wished you had been there. No doubt you had been at home, in a mud and jam stained dress, surrounded only by your tutor and the staff. You imaged yourself on the study floor, reading everything you could get your hands on and longing to travel to the palace with your father.

“Blackberry rum,” you recalled.

“That’s it!”

The smell of it would hang in the air for hours after it was made, delicious and warming.

“I could never stand it,” you admitted, “too sweet!”

“I’m not sure I could drink it now,” he conceded, smiling at the memory, “however I liked it far more than vodka, back then. Did he make it himself? I have never seen it since.”

“Our chef made it. Still does, I think.”

“I shall have to try it again, see if I still like it!”

You gave a polite laugh, watching his posture settle to a more slumped ease, and wondering how this became so casual.

“I’ll bring some,” you promised, “if I’m needed at the palace again.”  

Orlo smiled indulgently.

“I shall have to invent some excuse for your return, then.”

He went quiet for a moment, perhaps hesitating after an overstep. You looked at your hands, folded in your lap. When he spoke again, it was softer. He suited a gentle tone far better than the formality he had begun with.

“Catherine would like you. Come to dinner, tonight. I’ll ensure you are sat by her, and introduce you. She always loves to meet new people, especially women with minds – I suspect – to rival hers.”

“Oh! Thank you, that’s kind. I am sure I will be a poor comparison to the Empress, but if she would allow me to meet her, it would be an honour.”

You sought to hide your fear and nervousness, though perhaps Count Orlo saw through that anyway.

“She is nice. I promise. Nicer than myself, by some margin.”

As you fumbled for the words to contradict him – regardless of whether he deserved to be contradicted – he stood, clearly signalling the end of the meeting.

“She is ambitious, but kind. I’ll arrange it.”

You thanked him and left, overwhelmed and flustered as you wandered the halls for twice as long as you needed to in search of your room.

When you returned, the clock on your mantlepiece told you three hours had passed since you had left. You were stumped. It had felt like a moment and an eternity all at once.

The call of your bed was strong, your overwhelmed brain prepared for nothing else, and the soft sheets lured you in. Mind full of the conversation that morning, books spread out across the chaise lounge, you sank into the covers for a nap.

*

The warmth of the afternoon sun streaming into your quarters offered a far more pleasant awakening than your anxious morning. After you awoke, you tried to recall the meeting for your notes.

Recalling the meeting was almost as confusing as being in it, and you gave up in favour of reading, before suddenly recalling some detail and returning to your pen.

Months of stress, years, really, had dissolved in a single meeting. You weren’t sure what you thought of the man, but you had to admit you owed a great debt to Count Orlo.

The memories of laughing with your tutor in the office inherited from your father suddenly left a sour taste in your mouth. You had been mocking a blurry image of a stuffy bureaucrat, a man you had easily tricked and assumed to be stupid and uncaring. Now that you had an image of Count Orlo, your joy at tricking him felt wrong. Guilty.

He was no unfeeling yes-man. He had his own responsibilities, cared truly about his job and more about the people he served. His rudeness seemed forgivable, under the circumstances.

Yet you were reminded of your summons. The fear you had felt. The nausea of watching your home disappear in the rear window of the carriage and wondering if it would be the last time you saw it. No man with a sensible grip on the reality of everyday Russia would send such a cruel accusation by letter.

And yet, he remembered your father’s blackberry rum.

He forgave your lies to get food and encouraged your bid for more education.

Protected you, where he could have replaced you with someone more compliant.

As you watched the nobles walking by below the window, you craned your neck to see if each of them resembled Count Orlo.

You wanted to meet him again. Understand him. Discover whether his true character was that of a sharp-witted bureaucrat or the chatty, friendly man who remembered your father’s struggles with spelling.

He was an enigma. Split in two in your mind.

It was hard to forget that smirk which he quickly banished from his features, afraid to be caught enjoying your company.

Even as your thoughts were consumed by him, hours passed before you thought to send the Count a thanks for his handling of the meeting. You drafted the note half a dozen times, each rambling in a different tangent to the last, before finally sending the latest draft.

Dear Count Orlo,

I can only apologise for the hostility with which I approached our first meeting yesterday. It does not excuse my actions, but please know I was acting only in defence of myself and of those in my care.

Although it is insufficient to thank you for the kindness and openness of mind you have shown myself and Dryansk, I enclose a book which I think – from the reading material I observed in your office – you might enjoy. It is a favourite of mine.

I hope you do not mind that it has already been read, books are scarce in my region, and when one arrives the whole household must read it! I hope you enjoy it nonetheless, and that it is not a duplicate for one you already own.

Yours with the warmest regard,

You signed the note, and then looked at your own flourishing signature and opted to write your name beneath it, lest Orlo fail to remember who might have sent it.

*

A knock at your door startled you from the accounts you had been calculating.

It had scarcely been twenty minutes since the serf bearing your paper-wrapped gift disappeared to deliver it. Yet there he was.

Bouncing on his heels and refusing to push past your guard. He had removed his jacket, as the day gained its warmth. There was a faint ink stain on one of his white sleeves, the muddy colour of his waistcoat intercepted by faint golden embroidery.

You blinked, taking a moment to process the intrusion.

A letter and two books were clutched in the Count’s hands, and he peered past the guard at you, wincing as you made eye contact.

Curious.

“Count Orlo to see you, my Lady?”

“Thank you! Yes, let him in.”

You stood to greet him, though found yourself at a loss once he had crossed the room. A handshake seemed inappropriate. A kissing a proffered hand far too prestigious for a man of his status. He gave you an odd head-nod, and you returned it with a closed smile.

“Orlo,” you greeted, extending a hand to offer him a seat.

Perhaps he missed the gesture, as he continued to bounce on his heels. You remained standing with him, your accounts drying on your desk. He cast a quick glance over them, eyebrows furrowing for a mere second as he read, before remembering himself.

“I hope you don’t mind me presuming to visit,” he offered, “but it seemed faster than writing. I fear you may outwit me on paper.”

You grimaced at the implication, but he ploughed onwards.

“You owe me no apology, though I appreciate it all the same. I do, however, owe you one. It was not… I reread my own copy of the letter I sent, and realised how alarming it must have been. Summons like that, when you had never made the trip before.”

He looked to you for some approval, confirmation of what he said. You offered only a nod, reluctant to admit how upsetting you had found the experience.

“You were merely doing your job. A good job of it, in fact, to spot the discrepancies. I ought to be apologising to you,” you gestured vaguely to the book, feeling embarrassed to see its well-thumbed cover in his hand.

“Thank you.”  

The words were heavier than you’d anticipated, and when you met his gaze you were surprised to see complete sincerity in his warm brown eyes.

You had to look away.

“You’re welcome. I mean it.”

“I… I am sorry we met on such poor terms. I think… allies are difficult to find, and you may be a valuable ally to us.”

Political. Of course.

Get a grip, you chided yourself. You thought of your tutor, the pride he would feel at the end of this visit. This was politics.

“Of course. Anything I can do to help improve Russia, I would gladly be of service to the Empress’ wishes.”

“Right.”

He looked away, taking in your quarters, before returning his attention to you. He seemed to flounder for a moment, mouth opening before looking down at the book in his hand. He tapped the cover affectionately with a free hand.

“This is a valuable gift, I look forward to reading it. Thank you.”

You smiled, head tilted in embarrassment at the smallness of your gift.  

“Not much in a place like this, I’m sure,” you admitted, “but I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless.”

He regarded the novel for a moment. The book beneath it was more expensive, leather bound and gold embossed next to the fabric covering you had given him. He seemed oddly touched by it, in a way you had not anticipated.

“Something about reading a book that you know others have experienced too, I find it so magical. There aren’t a lot of people here with a penchant for literature, and knowing someone else has read the same words… dreamed the same worlds… it makes you feel so connected, you know? Less like a lonely visitor to those worlds…”

Glancing up at you, his eyes darted away again, shame creeping into his features.

“Shit, sorry – that was…”

“No, I understand. There’s nothing like sharing a book with a friend, discussing it, it’s lovely.”

“I hope you won’t mind me giving you something more boring… but this has helped me a lot. It’s Locke, have you read his work before?”

“No, not at all, in fact.”

“Oh! John Locke… he had some interesting ideas about the function of government… if you’d be interested, it’s yours.”

The books was in your hands before you had the chance to answer, clutched to your bodice as Orlo clutched his novel to his own chest. You couldn’t stop smiling at him.

“Thank you. This is an incredible gift.”

He was pleased at your acceptance of the book, tucking a rogue lock of hair behind his ear sheepishly, before noticing the clock behind you.

“Oh! Sorry, I was en route… I should go to Catherine.” He was beginning to rush, casting an apologetic glance behind him. “I only meant to drop by, it’s amazing how time flies! I’ll see you later. Catherine will be so excited to meet you!”

He was a whirlwind, in some ways. You watched as he left, striding past the guards and taking a moment to orient himself before rushing down the corridor, past your doors.

Curious.

You remind holding the book, flicking through the first few pages, as a serf crept into the room with tea. It was set for two, although Orlo had already vanished. You thanked them nonetheless, sinking into an armchair to think.

As the young woman serving you began to leave, a thought struck you.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, my lady?”

“What’s… do you know that man?”

“Count Orlo?”

You nodded, watching confusion colour her face.

“I… do. In his capacity as advisor to the Empress, of course.”

“Do you know… his relationship with her?”

She thought for a moment, before turning to fully face you. You could sense the careful diplomacy in her response.

“There are many rumours floating around here, but that is certainly not one I’ve heard before. They are close, but not… close in the way you are imaging, I suspect.”

You watched her for a moment, until she looked away, and guilt panged in your chest for making her uncomfortable. It seemed unlikely she was telling you anything less than what she knew to be true, you your gut told you there must be more to the relationship between Empress and advisor.

“Thank you,” you dismissed her, and she left eagerly.

Wandering to the scant few pieces in your small, travelling wardrobe, you pondered the woman’s nervous movements at the question. You were unable to consider the dresses in front of you as you wondered at the new government forming in the palace. It felt like getting away with something, to be invited to one of their dinners as a guest.

The book Orlo had given you was still in your hands, you realised. Perhaps you should begin to read it, in case he asked.

Finding a dress could wait.

*

When Orlo rounded the corner into the throne room he knew he was late, and flustered, and clutching a worn linen-bound novel to his chest where his notebook ought to be.

He didn’t know he was smiling from ear to ear, bouncing on his heels as he came to a stop in front of a patiently waiting Velementov, and a rather less patient Empress.

The General gave him no time to catch his breath, greeting him with a curt nod and a gruff comment.

“What’s got you so giddy?”

“Nothing. Nothing, I am fine.”

Catherine groaned as she rose from her chair, hands splayed across her swollen stomach. The Empress seemed to be approaching the end of her pregnancy, though she loathed to discuss it, growing more uncomfortable with each passing day.

Orlo’s plight, however, seemed to have distracted her as she crossed to Velementov’s side.

“You do look awfully cheery, I wonder what has caught your amusement?”

“A good meeting, that is all.”

“One which made you late?” she straightened her back, assuming authority, though Orlo took little notice of it.

“Apologies, yes. However, it has made me reconsider some policy–”

Catherine followed him across the room as he reached a desk, craning her neck to see over his shoulder.

“Who was the meeting with?”

“A representative from the Dryansk region.”

Velementov took heavy footsteps, loud even from the other side of the room, flask in-hand.

“Took your fancy, hm?” he grunted.

“Just… she’s nice. Clever. We had an interesting conversation about girls’ education, Catherine – which I felt we should revisit in our own policies. Push it to the regions–”

His attempted at a diversion did little to prevent Catherine from grinning and clapping, excitement colouring her pale features.

“She?”

Orlo glanced to her, trying to feign irritation, knowing the young Empress saw through him in that with the keenness that she always did. She was still smiling, all official business forgotten.

“Sounds like she’s taken your fancy, lad.” Velementov contributed.

He went largely ignored by both of them, as Orlo murmured, almost afraid of being heard.

“I think you’d really like her, Catherine. I invited her to join us, at dinner tonight, she’s well read, and clever, and… I think her heart is in the right place. She wants revolution. A better Russia for all.”

“I do like the sound of her. I’ll have her seated between us!”

The acceptance was quickly overshadowed by Catherine’s excitement, and Orlo’s realisation he had shown his hand far too readily.

“Perhaps… perhaps you could meet her afterwards? As everyone dances?”

He was not a fan of Catherine meeting this new friend one-on-one. Not with Orlo’s embarrassment at his attachment for her announced so plainly to the Empress. She had that look about her which preceded meddling.

“Nonsense! That way I may meet her, and you may… enjoy more time with her! Is that not what you were looking for?”

His stammering protests fell on deaf ears, drowned out by boyish laughter from Velementov, at his expense. With a few shrill words to a serf, it was done, and Catherine would entertain the conversation no longer.

“Onto business!” she announced.

Orlo took a deep breath, and tried not to watch the cogs turning in Catherine’s head as she plotted.

*

Your mounting sense of being incredibly underdressed only grew as you closed in on the banquet hall, silks and furs and cottons of every colour under the sun crowding around you. Although you’d had the sense to bring your finest evening dresses, the style and craftmanship you had access to in your region’s rural towns was no competition for the glamour, outrage and opulence of the palace.

Perhaps the fine palace shielded its residents from the risk of damaging their clothes, or perhaps they were simply wealthy enough not to care. Nonetheless, you tried to hold your head high.

The doors were swung open ahead of you, the warmth of the hall inviting you in. A horseshoe of tables greeted you, almost already filled, with guests both standing and sitting in conversation. Wine was flowing, though food was not yet served, and gleeful conversations were punctuated by the occasional roar of laughter, or harshness of bickering.

Despite yourself, and the fear you might seem strange, you found yourself smiling.

Nobles streamed in behind you, making you stumble further into the room to avoid them, and you looked around a little more frantically at the scene before you.

The Empress’ seat was obvious, ornate and tall, at the centre of the top table, but the woman herself was absent. Similarly, your new friend was nowhere to be seen, and you craned your neck to try and spot him.

“You must be new here,” came the sickly words of a noblewoman, adorned herself with feathers and fur, lining a beautiful garment.

She was pretty, with round cheeks and a pronounced jaw, in possession of all the grace you supposed a lady of the court ought to have. Although you detected a sense of mocking behind the words, you smiled, offering her an emphatic nod.

“Yes! And I must say, you all look wonderful! I must get the name of your seamstress, if you would be so kind as to share it?”

“Oh!” You could see her expression softening to a genuine smile, and you couldn’t help matching it, “how kind! Of course, I will have someone pass it on to you.”

“Thank you!”

She extended a hand, and you took it politely, introducing yourself.

“Georgina.”

There was a lull, and you could see her taking in your dress – it was well made, pretty, in its own way, but certainly not of the style.

“I wonder, do you know where I might be sitting?”

She tilted her head curiously, eyes glancing at the occupied tables behind you.

“Not a clue, sorry.”

Georgina mouthed something to someone behind you, and you stepped back, not wanting to interrupt her evening.

“I’ll let you get on,” you smiled tightly, “lovely to meet you.”

She paused, returning from the distraction to look at you, with a curious regard.

“Lovely to meet you too, I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again soon.”

You blinked after her as she left, bewildered by the whole exchange. Then he was there. Orlo. In the place she’d been, watching with some unknowable thought hidden behind his wide eyes, the gentlest smile you’d ever seen spreading across his face as he saw you. It was timid, afraid to bare his teeth, less commanding than he’d been in his own quarters.

Guests skirted around him as they arrived, none greeting him, but all keenly avoiding interrupting the moment.

“Hello,” you offered, voice quieter than you’d intended in the busy room.

“Hello,” he returned.

His hands were intertwined in front of him, the smile still firmly on his lips, a slight rock to the way he stood. You glanced behind you to Georgina, and saw an entire row of guests watching you. You cleared your throat, and Orlo seemed to remember himself.

“Right! Sorry, how are you?”

You smiled.

“I am well, thank you. Though I’m afraid I can’t recall where you said I was sitting.”

His eyebrows raised in realisation.

“Of course! Apologies, I had meant to meet you, we… the meeting ran over.”

You told him not to worry, but your reassurances did nothing to stop him apologising again as he lead you to the head table.

The Empress had taken her seat, adorned in a gold dress which accentuated her baby bump, blonde curls braided in an intricate crown on her head, watching unapologetically as Orlo led you towards her.

“Are you certain? I am not sure the Empress needs to endure my company as she is trying to enjoy her dinner...”

“Nonesense! I am sure you will get along wonderfully.”

You didn’t argue, approaching the Empress’ earshot.

Truthfully, you were not sure you wanted to try and keep up with her for the evening. You were experienced in diplomatic events, but nothing on this scale. With each step, the reality that she was the Empress made your stomach drop.

Introductions were quick, though you felt immediately scolded as she insisted against being called Empress.

“Call me Catherine. Any friend of Orlo’s is a friend of mine.”

“Of course.” You refrained from calling her Catherine.

“I hear your father is keen to expand state education to include girls?”

As you shot Orlo a glance, he just nodded for you to continue.

*

Once the conversation lulled, you dared to glance around the room. Several eyes were still glued to you, and you stared into the cleared plate of your starter.

Catherine was nice. You liked her. A dreamer, a bit dramatic, capable of talking for all of Russia, but fundamentally, she seemed supportive. You didn’t miss the quick glances she and Orlo shared, the microexpressions which seemed designed to pass you by.

You weren’t sure what they meant, but you were relieved to realise you felt as though you were sat between bickering siblings – not lovers.

Plates were cleared, larger plates delivered, the room filled with chatter and expressions of delight at the food and glasses of vodka which poured endlessly from side doors. Orlo hadn’t spoken much, aside from to extend upon what you or Catherine said, and you wondered at his quietness.

“So, you have travelled here alone?”

The Empress caught your attention with the question, and you turned back to see her appearing sincerely interested, head tilted towards you, her champagne flute in one hand.

“I did! My father could not visit,” you winced at the thought of Orlo hearing your misdirection, “but sends his kindest regards. He will be so thrilled to hear of your support for our ideals. Or rather – that I believe our ideals line up so well.”

Catherine hesitated, taking a sip which made you worry you had misspoken. Finally, she responded.

“I am also glad to hear that. It would be a pleasure to meet him one day. I am surprised, that he would send you alone.”

You had no time to reply, as she looked out to the room and continued to speak.

“I was sent here alone, though it was to meet my husband. But to a foreign land, I suppose. Though, I wonder if perhaps this does feel like a foreign land? It is such a strange place, after all.”

She pondered for only a second on her digression, before continuing.

“Are you married?”

“No, Empress.”

Sandwiched between perhaps the two most powerful people in Russia, this was the first question which had flustered you.

“If you seek an alliance, I am sure our dear Orlo could find you something suitable! Though I understand marrying for love has a draw for some.”

One palm laid across her stomach as she spoke, dazed for a moment before snapping herself out of her thoughts.

“I am not sure, I am so busy working for my father –”

“Come now, it hardly takes much time! Certainly not in my experience.”

You bit your lip as she amused herself with some private joke, and noted that Orlo had gone very still beside you.

“Are you married, Empress? If it is not improper to ask?”

Catherine laughed hollowly, gesturing to the bump of her stomach.

“I am. Though I suppose a coup makes a marriage rather more complicated. I will not bore you with it.”

A stark note not to speak of the matter, which was clear to you. You tried desperately to think of a distracting topic, before Catherine suddenly gasped.

“Apologies,” she rose from her chair, two guards mobilising to flank her, “it seems this baby is at constant war with my bladder.”

You stammered that it was no bother at all, though it fell on deaf ears as Catherine dashed for a door.

For a moment, the room seemed silence, the noise of other guests rushing silently past your unhearing ears.

“She can be a little intense,” Orlo muttered apologetically beside you, the first words to permeate the rushing of blood in your ears.

“Not at all, it is a pleasure to meet her.”

You lowered your voice a touch, leaning towards Orlo.

“Thank you again, for your discretion regarding my father. I owe you a great debt.”

A dismissive, awkward wave of his hand accompanied a flustered glance to his plate, and you were struck with how endearing you found his modesty in Catherine’s company.

“Not at all.” He replied, “You are doing your region a great service in his stead.”

“That is kind. Each day,” you sighed, “I worry I am not doing enough.”

“I know the feeling. It never ceases, though I suspect that the presence of such a fear is the only way to know that you do care – and that you are doing enough.”

He had not eaten much of his main course, and left it completely now that the conversation was in full swing. To encourage him to eat would be an overstep, and yet compounded with the dark circles beneath his eyes you feared he perhaps needed someone to nag him. To look after him.

Catherine’s words were heavy in your memory, and you swallowed heavily against the question.

“I am afraid I did not have the time to read any of your book. I brought it to my meetings, but we ran over. There is quite a lot going on at the moment, trying to establish a new government–”

You stifled a dry laugh, and Orlo turned to fix you with a curious glance.

“You are busy forming a new Russia, please, do not worry about reading a silly story.”

“I had hoped to discuss it with you over dinner,” he admitted quietly, and you felt your chest tighten at the words.

“Whenever you find the time, I am sure I will delight in discussing it,” you promised, “I am sure we can find plenty else to discuss in the meantime.”

He didn’t reply, and as you watched him, the room melted away around you. Sound failed to reach your ears, the flickering candles only existed to warm the soft brown planes of Orlo’s face. There was nothing else you needed to see. His eyes were wide, bewildered as he stared, eyebrows drawing together in a concerned swoop.

“I have not been in a relationship before.”

You blinked, taking in the words.

“I tell you this only because… I think I would like that, with you,” he explained, nonchalant and yet his words accelerating in panic, “and I have no idea how to go about it.”

He was laughing at himself, and you couldn’t help smiling.

“I think you are going about it rather well,” you smiled.

In your peripheral vision you could see the movement of the crowd, feel the table move as Catherine returned to her seat, and yet in such a tender moment you could not imagine looking anywhere but Orlo’s timid smile.

“Am I?”

“Well, I have no idea how to go about such a thing myself. So, I suppose we ought to make a good pair.”

You offered a languid smile, hoping it might conceal the way your heart was pounding against your ribs, and how your palms grew sweaty against the tablecloth.

Catherine cleared her throat behind you, bored, and you watched the subtle roll of Orlo’s eyes before you returned your attention to the Empress.

“You did not tell me,” she asked, her attention truly trained on her advisor as she looked past you, “whether you your heart belonged to anyone.”

“I am not married, Empress,” you offered delicately, refusing to look at Orlo.

“One must not be married to have a loyalty, a love, or another. Plenty here can tell you that.”

You laughed politely, though suspected the Empress was not making the comment in any jest.

“I believe I am exploring my options.”

“So there are options?” she raised an eyebrow, peering around you at the Count.

“One option,” you muttered, hoping to be lost in the din of the banquet hall.

“Well, I suspect it may be a very good option. Perhaps a little wracked by worries, and bookish, but with many excellent qualities. And you ought to pursue it.”  

Like a cracking glass, realisation hit you. She was fondly teasing Orlo, the man fidgeting beside you as the dessert was served.

It took several moments for the Empress’ attention to falter, diverted by her flan as she ate for two.

You looked kindly back to Orlo, noting the slight hunching of his shoulders as he returned your attention.

“I hope this mystery man does not have a more eclectic taste in books.”

“He doesn’t. Nor clearer vision for the future of his country.”

“Oh?”

“We have not known each other long, but I suspect we will get along very well.”  

“I hope so.”

The moment passed, your attention turning to the room, absorbing the opulence and the joy of the courtiers and nobles as they shovelled through their desserts and teased one another across the grand room.

“What do you think of the court, since it is your first visit?”

“It is a lot to take in. A significant difference from home,” you admitted, “though the food is wonderful. And it has some rather charming inhabitants.”

He beamed at the compliment, concealing the movement as he dipped his face from you.

“I saw you held you own with George, earlier, that is no mean feat.”

You glanced across at the woman as he mentioned her, hardly recalling the conversation.

“She seemed perfectly fine, though I did not speak to her for long.”

“She is Peter’s mistress,” he muttered, and your face did not hide your surprise.

“Emperor Peter?”  

“The ex-Emperor,” Orlo gently corrected, “but yes.”

You had not been aware he had survived the coup, though hid that revelation given your proximity to the Empress. Catherine’s words started to carry rather more meaning.

“I wonder at the point of marriage at all,” you murmured nervously, hoping only Orlo might be the only one to hear you.

And that he would not find your comment naïve. Such a thing was not common in your region, certainly not something to be made a public piece of knowledge. Perhaps the palace took a more relaxed view.

“I wonder the same myself,” Orlo confided, voice barely above a whisper, “I had started to believe I was alone in that notion.”

“You are not,” you offered pointedly.

He looked at you fully, expression sincere.

“I am glad to hear we agree on that matter. Were I… to find someone I am not sure I would be interested much in sharing.”

“Nor I.”

Orlo’s response was instant, and sincere.

“Good.”

The moment was broken by bristling beside you, you suspected Catherine was eavesdropping yet again. Orlo smiled fondly, though a little embarrassed.

“It is getting rather late,” she declared, though the sun had barely set and the dinner had only just finished. “Perhaps you ought to walk our guest to her room?”

The Count frowned at Catherine.

“I thought she might enjoy the dancing–”

“Would you?” the Empress asked, voice insistent in a way which implied a correct answer.

“I am not… the most adept at dancing. Though I may watch, or try–”

“Watching dancing is no fun, and you never get a moment of peace. Allow Orlo to walk you back to your quarters.”

And so it was done. A few eyes were drawn as you left with the Count, no one else had yet risen, and Catherine watched approvingly as he led you to a side door.

The entire palace was occupied by the banquet, and so the halls were empty, and you couldn’t help but ask Orlo what the Empress had been offended by as you ventured further from the main rooms of a palace.

He chuckled at some private thought.

“I believe she is… a romantic. But not a patient woman.”

There was something he was holding back, but you opted not to ask. Instead, you veered off path to stare out at the starry night sky.

A few paces later, Orlo realised your diversion and joined you at the window, the wall sconces offering light which danced beside your reflections in the glass panes.

“I am surprised it looks the same,” you admitted suddenly. “The distance felt to great, that I was sure the stars would appear different.”

You could see Orlo in the reflection, hands planted on the window sill, eyes flickering between the sky and your reflection in the glass.

“I confess, I have always found it comforting. However far I have roamed, the sky never seems to look different.”

Bypassing his reflection to look at his true form, you could see the soft soul he hid well in front of Catherine.

“I was lost, once,” he began, “I thought I was going to die. Carriage turned over, and… far from home. I did things I am not proud of, to survive”

His eyes flickered to yours and back to the sky.

“But when all was said and done, and I found myself a changed man, the stars… they stayed the same. The moon was still there, repeating its cycle, and the night sky remained the same.”

“When my father died… I was the same. I would walk until night fell and I was not even sure if I could return… or wanted to. And I would look up at the stars and somehow always make it home. They were uncaring, and yet always there.”

He did not reply, and you felt something heavy crushing your chest, embarrassment making your dinner sit heavy in your stomach.

“I’m sorry. You did not ask to hear that –”

“I want to.”

He turned to you suddenly, and you were surprised to see the shine of welling tears in his eyes. He turned away to wipe harshly at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

You laid a hand on his upper arm, trying to offer what little comfort you could without overstepping.

“Orlo…”

“How are you finding court?”

You indulged his non sequitur.

“I’m not sure how well I’m doing at it, as I said, but it is beautiful. As much as it is overwhelming,” you laughed nervously.

“You are doing fine. I wondered more… if you would ever consider spending more time here.”

Returning to the stars, you pondered the question. Orlo’s fingers drummed across the windowsill as he stood beside you.

“I’m not sure. I would like to try it, though,” you took a deep breath, “I believe I may have business here in future.”

Sneaking him a smile, your heart fluttered as he returned it.

“We shall have to make it that way,” Orlo stage-whispered, as though conspiring.

“I suppose plenty work for their regions while living here,” you mused.

“Plenty,” Orlo confirmed, “in fact, I would advise it is best.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” You teased, and the Count faltered in his flirting.

“I would go to you,” he began, “but my role here is important, and I fear I cannot leave–”

“Orlo,” you laughed, “of course I would not expect you to move to Dryansk. Though if you ever want to visit, you would of course be so welcome.”

“I would love to see it.”

“It is beautiful,” you admitted.

“I hear very progressive in its policies, too.”

“We do our best.”

The sound of voices leaked into the corridor as the first guests began to leave the banquet, meandering to their rooms or to the dance halls. You suddenly found you had no desire to speak to anyone except for the man beside you.

“I wonder if you might walk me to my rooms? I am not sure I can recall their location.”

“Oh?”

“I believe your Empress advised it,” you reminded him.

The Count laughed.

“Demanded it, I believe.”

“Then we ought to acquiesce.”

“It would be treason not to,” he teased.

He offered you his elbow, and you took it, looping your arm through his.

As his free hand settled on yours, warm skin on warm skin, you fought back a shudder. It was difficult to recall that you had met just that morning. Despite your best intentions to take things slow, the words fell from your mouth.

“Perhaps I ought to commission some new clothes, if I am to be visiting court a lot?”

There sudden was a bounce in Orlo’s step, you felt it through your interconnected arms.

“You look lovely, but since you will have to visit for fittings, I fully endorse that idea.”

With one final turn, you could see the doors which led to your apartments. Your grip on Orlo’s elbow grew tighter, his thumb moving to brush over your hand.

Your steps grew slower until finally stopping, grinding to a halt outside your doors with a final sigh.

“How much longer do you plan on staying?” he asked, words hushed as though it might stop your answer from being real.

“I am not sure,” you confessed, “I had planned to leave tomorrow if our meeting went poorly, though now I am not sure.”

“If our meeting went poorly?” Orlo asked, bemusement colouring his tone.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I mean how long I might stay.”

“At least until tomorrow night, I insist. A quieter dinner, in my apartments. With blackberry rum, in your father’s honour.”

You had released his arm, but kept a hold on his hand, fingers laced loosely together. The thought made you smile.

“Only if you can find it made as well as my father’s.”

“I can make no promises,” he smiled, “but I will do my best.”

“That sounds perfect, Orlo. I will look forward to it.”

He beamed, and you found yourself matching his giddy smile in the warm lighting of the corridor. Orlo bounced up onto his heels, and you wondered if it was a regular habit, or something he did around you.

“I cannot wait.”    

You both stood for a moment longer, unwilling to part, and undisturbed by the occasional drunken voice of a wandering noble. You found your mind temporarily unable to find concern for anything beyond this corridor.

“If it is not too soon, perhaps we could do breakfast, too?” He offered, “I realise you do not know anyone else here, yet.”

“I would love that.”

“Good.”

For a few more moments, he rocked on his heels in place, and you found yourself unable to part from his company.

“It is not too late, if you would like company –” he began, but the words broke you from your thoughts.

You laughed, finally reaching for the door handle.

“I will see you tomorrow,” you placated, “that is not too long.”

“It seems such a long time.”

Sap.

“Tomorrow,” you found yourself laughing at his forlorn expression, “you have some required reading before breakfast.”

Finally, his expression broke, and Orlo laughed.

“I will see you tomorrow, then. I will come and get you at eight?”

“Nine!” you groaned, but Orlo just smiled.

“Half-past eight.”

“Half-past eight,” you conceded, already knowing that despite the early hour you would be awake with excitement and waiting for him.

“It’s a date,” he declared, words awkward as they fell from his lips.

“It is.”

“Perfect.”

Finally entering your rooms, you leant back against the door, head falling to rest on the door.

With a giddy smile to the gaudy drapes, you heard him walk away, the sound of his quick steps and bark of giddy laughter finding their way back to you.

#count orlo #count orlo x reader #the great hulu #count orlo x you #fic #13atoms #count orlo fic

[kinglivv]

The New Empress

Dhawan!Master x Reader

Summary: One night, the Master - while pretending to be Count Orlo - asks you if you'd like to be his Empress when he takes over Russia.

Warnings: Implied smut, discussion of murder

A/N: I'm only on episode 3 of the Great so please DON'T spoil it for me >:(. This is just short a lil idea I had which I thought I'd test out. I'd totally be up to doing something else along these lines if you guys like it!

Also, @koschei-taylor, the Marial insult is for you babe x

"This place is amazing." You tell the Master, rolling onto your back to stare up at the gold and green bed canopy hanging over the two of you. The silk sheets shift against your bare skin as you do so, and he makes a low whining sound at your pulling away.

"It's 18th century Russia. It's not that great." The Master replies dryly, but you can see in his face when you glance over at him that he does hold some appreciation for it. He'd always been a great lover of beauty and luxury, and he was entirely in his element, surrounded by old oil paintings and plush pillows and leather-bound books.

"It must be nice here." You sigh, looking over at him.

"It's primitive." He replies, wrinkling his nose. "Russia's the worst in this century, you know that? Besides Britain. All they do here is drink and fuck and start pointless wars."

"That doesn't sound too bad actually."

"You know they make fun of me because they think I'm a virgin?" He says incredulously.

There's a silence as he waits for your outrage, but to his annoyance you simply burst out laughing.

"You - you, the Master," you splutter, "are getting made fun of by a bunch of humans and you're just... letting it happen?"

"I just need to execute my plan and then I'm done here! I don't need to be concerned over childish insults!"

"Yeah," You snort. "And how's that plan going, by the way? It's getting lonely in your TARDIS."

The TARDIS itself, disguised as a mahogany wardrobe in the corner, grumbles in agreement.

"It's going... interestingly." His hands move behind his head as he thinks. "They're all falling for Count Orlo's innocent and weak façade - granted, they do recognise he's intelligent."

You glance over at the glasses on the nightstand. "Orlo? Is that what O was short for?"

He ignores you. "The Emperor's new wife, Catherine," he continues, "seems to be quite enarmoured with Orlo. She constantly wants to talk about books and literature and loves to express the lengths of her disliking towards her husband. She even tried to seduce me the other night."

"What?" You squeak, elbowing him.

"Ow!" He rubs his side. "I didn't let her touch me! Just acted flustered, the way Orlo would and practically ran from the room. Anyway - now she's planning a coup!"

"A coup?" You raise an eyebrow. "There was never a Russian coup in the 1700s. I've read the books."

"But there will be." He grins devilishly, and his hand reaches out, wrapping around your waist and pulling you back into him. "In the original timeline, the current emperor goes on to live a long life, and his heir takes over from him when he dies. But in this new timeline -" He props himself up on his elbow as he begins to get excited, eyes sparkling and a hand playing with your hair. " -in this new timeline, his wife Catherine will over throw him, and she will become Catherine the Great."

You gaze up at him with a smile on your face.

"Disrupting Earth's entire timeline! That sounds magnificent."

"Exactly! I've already gained her trust and she's enlisted my help in the coup, so that's the tricky part already done."

"How many people is has she got on board with it?"

"So far it's her, me and her lady's maid. A little thing called Marial - I fear I'll have to get rid of her. She's terribly annoying and outspoken."

"Sounds like my kind of person."

"Anyway. Here, look -" He sits up and reaches to his bedside table, pulling out a large stack of papers. Spreading them out on the quilt in front of you both, you sit up to examine them, pulling the sheets with you.

"You've planned it well," You compliment, sifting through the papers which hold the extremely detailed plans to some sort of Russian Revolution. His arm wraps around your waist as he watches you admire his work. You pause when you reach one, titled 'Y/N'. "What's this?"

"Ah - they don't know about that part of the plan yet," He grins. "When Catherine is in power, I'll be one of her closest advisors. Resultantly, when I kill her and all her heirs, I will be the one taking over. I'll make sure of it. And so, I'll need an... Empress."

You look up at him, a smile slowly forming on your face.

"What do you say?" He asks. "A few years together in 18th century Russia? Cock everything up a little bit? You'll be one of the most powerful people in the world - you can start as many wars as you want, have all the money you could ever need. We can destroy Earth's weak timeline irreversibly from the inside. It'll be like a... romantic getaway."

"Darling," You lace your fingers with his and he beams down at you. "I'd absolutely love that."

Taglist: @truthbehindthemysteries @queerconfusionthings @xenteaart @actuallyanita @ateliefloresdaprimavera @persephonehemingway @fabulous-jj-style @anteroom-of-death

#doctor who #the master #series 12 #sacha dhawan #dhawan!master #dhawan!master x reader #doctor who fanfic #dhawan!master imagine #count orlo #count orlo x reader #the great hulu #dhawan master x reader #dhawan!master x you

[colderthancoldest]

The only Count Orlo fic I want to read is someone- I don't even care who- kidnapping Orlo and dragging him all the way to France where his revolutionary ideas are appreciated.

I want people treating Orlo right, and showering him with genuine compliments until he tears up, giving him all the books he could possibly want, wrapping him in comfy blankets, bringing him warm tea- and that's it. Just characters loving and respecting Orlo. Not a single insult is thrown his way.

Orlo goes on nice walks through the park and gets to debate philosophy with the greats and maybe writes a book of his own and that's it.

I want Orlo to be loved and respected for the brilliant person he is that's it the end.

#you know I'm right #he deserves the world #no other characters and literally 0 plot #just Orlo having a wonderful day and being cared for #count orlo #orlo #the great #orlo x reader

[fanfickitchenette]

Friend of the Empress, Chapter One

Orlo x Reader; Chapter One-Of Expectations and Faults

Y/N finds herself sent along as her childhood friend Catherine goes off to Russia to get married. The stay is on a to be determined basis, at the will of her parents and her own impending marriage. Everything in Russia is not as Catherine expected. Y/N wasn't expecting much in general. But, still, it wasn't this.

*no warnings I can think of for this chapter* BUT

TAGS for the story as a whole--possible eventual smut; talk of death, murder, SA (none in the story, just discussion); canon-typical violence; strangers-friends-lovers; angst; lots of platonic love

Word Count 1.7K

Chapter One: Expectations

            “My Russian is barely passable, Catherine. I don’t know what you expect of me.”, you smile at your friend with trepidation. The carriage bumps merrily along the ground, seemingly in touch with Catherine’s infectious joy. She pauses in re-reading you a letter that her emperor wrote her months ago. You can vividly recall blonde hair and bright blue eyes as she shook you awake to show you his correspondence when he initially sent the letter. The letter would be kept on her person when the two of you would traverse the grounds of her parent’s estate and then placed on the table next to her bed when she’d go to sleep.

            You hate to interrupt her excitement but the conversation you had with her mother before leaving sits uneasily in the back of you mind. Princess Consort, Lady Joanna Elisabeth terrifies you and makes you nauseous on the best of days. It’s been almost three weeks since the two of you started the journey from Germany. At the beginning, it was almost simple to brush off Lady Joanna’s warnings, Catherine radiated excitement and warmed the air with her hopes and ideas and the musings of her Peter. She quizzed you in Russian and asked the same back. When the sun was brightest, she would read aloud from her books of philosophy. You would sometimes read to her from the few novels you had been able to pack. But the passage of time has caught up with you. You’re set to reach the palace of Emperor Peter within the next few hours.

            The morning that Catherine’s departure was set, the dawn seeing you wait for your friend at the bottom of the staircase, you hadn’t known you’d be accompanying her all the way to Russia. With a rustle, only perceptible with years of training to listen for it, you straightened your back as Lady Joanna appeared at you elbow. “How marvelous to see you up so early, y/n. I do know how you love to wake up at a leisurely pace.”

            Your smile was, mostly, sincere as you dipped into a curtsy in greeting, “I didn’t want to be the reason for making us late on departure, my lady. I do know it’s an unfortunate habit. If I can say, you look amazing this morning. The green suits your complexion.” Her lips curled up with satisfaction, a hand smoothing the fabric of her rather enormous bustle.

            “You may, as I do look wonderful. You look presentable, which is a small relief. You’ve chosen a decent dress, especially as I know you won’t have packed much.”

            “I didn’t think I would need much, my lady. I didn’t want to overburden anyone when Catherine is bringing many of her things. It will only be five days before I will switch to a different carriage line. Simple things only.” Lady Joanna had looked at you then, raising her eyebrow with the mock surprise you’d seen her bestow on all of her children as long as you’d known them. Donna received it when she was informed of the sale of her beloved horse when she was fourteen and ‘too old to be messing about in the fields with no marriage arranged.’; Frederick got it when he was told he wouldn’t be summering with his friend, as the boy had died two weeks before and ‘did no one tell you? How good a friend could you have been, then?’

            A letter materialized from behind the woman’s back, “Did I not tell you that your parents wrote to me? Maybe a month or so ago. So many things happening, you must forgive me,” you nodded silently, worry curled and kept trapped under your tongue, “No need to fret. You know they’ve been working to get you married for a while now. Apparently they have a few good choices, but they’d like you out of reach for a bit. No one filling your mind with inappropriate thoughts of a love match. You’ll be accompanying Catherine. All the way to Russia. You’ll be sent for once your parents make their decision.” She had given you their letter and asked if you’d like a moment to pack anything else before leaving. It had been almost kind of her to give you the heads up; traveling with only a suitcase and bag to a foreign nation wouldn’t be feasible if you didn’t know how long you’d be informally exiled. Until about a week into the trip, Catherine had been under the impression you knew that you’d be going with her since the beginning.

            At the moment, the two of you bumping along the road, Catherine refolds her letter and tucks it into one of the books sprawled onto the seat next to her. “All I expect from you, y/n, is that you keep me company. That you stay by my side as Peter and I bring Russia into prosperity. When you leave me, I will be bereft. I will be inconsolable. I will be in mourning,” her hands find yours as she leans forward, you meet her in the middle and rest your foreheads together, “I will expect you to lead a great life. Wherever you may be. So that, when we write, when we visit, we will both be accomplished of wonderful things and of wonderful love. I expect only that and nothing less.” She always makes things sound so easy. You wonder how she thinks like that. How she believes in herself and those around her with such confidence.

            “Well,” you lean back in your seat, not surprised when she moves to the seat next to you and repositions her head onto your shoulder, “If that’s all, I should be able to manage.”

            The palace is huge. The grounds are glorious. You are completely gob-smacked at the sight as Catherine presses her face to the window, lost in her own awe. You tug her into sitting straight as the carriage makes a turn to be parallel to the palace and slows to a stop. A man in uniform opens the door after a moment, offering a hand first for Catherine and then you, both of you leaving the carriage with your journey finally complete. It’s traditional, at least at home, to initially be allowed to freshen up after long journeys. You, at least, are expecting an hour to change into a grander dress and wash up a bit before Catherine meets her Peter. Instead, both of you are instructed to follow two soldiers. To meet with the emperor and his advisors immediately. Catherine brushes her hair with her fingers and pulls out the twig of tree needles, that she plucked on the last part of your trip, from the top of her dress. You don’t feel anywhere near as composed. Your traveling dress, the same style as hers, feels too light and too pink and entirely not enough in everything that would matter in a royal court. If the ladies are anything like Lady Joanna, they will eat Catherine alive. And what they’ll do to you doesn’t even require thinking about.

            The halls seem surprisingly empty as you both walk through, slightly allaying the fear that Catherine would be immediately beset by gossip. You can tell Catherine is focused only on her destination, on meeting this great love, but you can’t help feeling as if the life of the palace is simply waiting behind closed doors as you pass. Levying judgement through thick walls covered in a large amount of mounted animal heads and various antlers. One of the only nice things that Lady Joanna ever said about you was that it might be valuable to doubt yourself if only to not be surprised when everything goes wrong. She said you always adapted wonderfully because of it. Your own mother normally called you observant and level-headed and left it at that.

            A grand set of doors are opened to an empty room, housing a single throne. Catherine isn’t kept waiting long. You only feel relief for your friend at that. She might have exploded if left alone, waiting, with her future so close by. The man who enters and strides forward, separating himself from the few others he is with, is handsome and you might be jealous if it weren’t your friend, your lovely Catherine, who is marrying him. He’s tall, with clear skin and pretty eyes. You note, almost absentmindedly, that you could almost be jealous of his eyelashes because they do make his eyes very nice to look at. He pauses in front of your friend. The girl you’ve known since you were both children. Who demanded that you learn to read more than your letters and simple sentences. The girl who you watched grow into the wonderous women, full of optimism and grand ideas that make you light-headed. You can barely imagine how she’s feeling, what she’s thinking.

            He circles your friend once. You want to be bitter, thinking how at odds that makes him seem from his letter, but your father’s voice rings in your head. It reminds you that Peter is still a man. Even the best of men have their faults when it comes to…physical urges and interests. You would allow him that if—“You look taller in your portrait,” he turns and starts to walk away, your eyes attempt to bug out of your skull, “Send her back. Get me a tall one.” It’s silent for one, ringing moment. Your eyes fix firmly on your friend, noting how she hides her shock better than you can but just barely. The moment ends and he laughs, the other men following his lead, and turns back. “Rich. Rich. See what I did there? I’m kidding. Kidding.”            

Your friend says she finds it amusing even as you feel her joy lessening from a few feet away. She gives him the branch of spruce and you see and hear as the Peter in front of her is fully detached from the letter she’s been pouring over. He promptly leaves to go horse-riding, though something about it feels off to you, before you and Catherine follow after the archbishop who came into the room with the emperor. She still seems to have her hope and determination even as your own wanes. The man who seemingly wrote the letter, a shorter fellow with brown skin, a black coif of healthy-looking hair, and glasses, watches the three of you leave with something very much like guilt in his eyes.

#catherine the great #the great hulu #count orlo #sacha dhawan #count orlo x reader #slow burn #friends to lovers #orlo is on the ace spectrum for sure #fanfic #the great fanfiction #the great imagine

[likesomekindofcheese]

Please take pity on my name nerd heart and tell me what names you think Orlo would consider for his child! I can see him considering the names of Western philosophers.

Oh! OOOOOHH! That’s precious! And I have been wanting to write for Orlo but never had the chance until now! Thank you!

“We are not naming the baby Plato!” you insist, placing a protective hand over your stomach. 

The round bump was not too big yet, but it was now finally there.

Your dear husband turned from sitting in his chair and fixed his glasses.

“But, Y/N-darling- consider it! Wouldn’t you like the baby to be like that! You’ve read the Allegory with the Cave-wonderful, brilliant ideas!”

You sighed, setting yourself down on the bed, changing your swelling feet out of your slippers.

“But you’ve read what all of those men said about women...that they were-what-barely above animals?! I don’t want my child to emulate that!”

He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck and looking down.

“I...I overlooked that...and I haven’t read it in a while...” he confessed sheepishly. 

You let out a sigh as you tapped your fingers, thinking. Orlo continued to search through the books scattered on his desk, despite your protesting yawns.

“Oh! How about Kant! Immanuel Kant!” he cheered, rolling up his shirt sleeves as he pointed to a page.

“Hmm, I like the sound of that...” you mused.

“Oh! Or Rene- for Rene Descartes...”

“That’s a nice name!”  you pointed out, settling into the blankets.

Happily humming, he got out of his desk and changed into his shift from the wardrobe in your room.

“I suppose Rousseau...that’s who the Empress likes. And then we’d have her blessing....”

“I did like him, we could do that...or there’s Augustine of Hippo. Augustine’s rather regal, don’t you think?”

In his nightshirt, his glasses unfolded and his hair free he gave you a beautiful smile.

“Very regal, my dear!” he cheered.

Giving you a sweet kiss, he blew out the candle and you both settled into the warm blankets from the Russian chill.

Though you could sense he wasn’t asleep yet from his rustling. And a thought came up.

“Grigory...what if it’s a girl...” you muttered.

He turned over, eyes bright in the dark.

“Ah....uh...Augustina then?” he wondered.

With a little laugh, you nodded.

“I guess so! We have time to decide...” you dismissed.

You settled into your pillows as you saw Orlo’s hand reach across to touch your bump.

“Goodnight, little one. We’ll figure out a good name for you but...your mother and I love you already....”

The Great Taglist: Taglist: @sgt-stardust-killerqueen​ @queenlover05​ @itsametaphorgwil​ @foxinaforestofstars​ @iwritefanficnotprophecies​ @simonedk​ @panagiasikelia​ @grigorlee​ @fueled-by-novocaine​ @xviiarez​ @vintage-and-hypnotic​ @raerae27​ @i-wished-upon-a-star-one-night​ (if I get anyone wrong, please forgive me! I’m sleepy and trying to get this out before I conk out!)

#Carrie writes #Orlo #Count Orlo #Count Orlo Fluff #count orlo x reader #count Orlo x you #count orlo x y/n #count orlo x fem! reader #count Orlo fanfiction #The Great fanfic #the Great fanfiction #Count Orlo fluff #sacha dhawan

[thegreatfanblog]

Would you mind doing a count orlo x reader where she has his baby and Orlo just gushes over the two of them? Or smth fluffy I just want fluff with orlo owo thanks

hi!! sorry it took longer than expected!! thank you so much for the submission. i really hope you like it!! //submissions still open!//

Orlo was an intellectual at heart. He tried to study everything he could, finding that his broad areas of knowledge were helpful at one point or another.

An example of this would be medicine. Medicine was a controversial topic in Russia, with most of it being censored by the church in fear of an educated populace. And so Orlo found studying it to be particularly tantalizing. Like he was a schoolboy about to be caught for doing one thing or another against the rules.

This was a subject he tried to educate himself fiercely in, studying the basic make up of the human anatomy, memorizing where arteries were, how different procedures worked, the basic principles of life, death, and finally, birth.

Orlo knew how birth worked, especially in Russia. Women were expected to bear children excessively, making farmers, soldiers, and servants for the Emperor’s mighty nation. Any pain they experienced would be for the greater good, with no real caution paid to the wellbeing of the women. Women dying in childbirth was a given. The church would not allow for medical research in this respect, as inserting science to one of the ultimate areas of God was seen as blasphemous. Orlo knew more women could survive if the church would just budge out of it.

And so when you both discovered your pregnancy, Orlo was fearful, mentally listing the statistics of the likelihood of death. He was scared. More fearful than you had ever seen, including the entire coup process. For the first two months you had allowed this worry to encompass your life, begrudgingly allowing Orlo to do most things for you. He would carry everything for you, wait on your every whim, regulate your diet, and even never let you out of his sight. At first, it was rather sweet of him, you thought. You had never been taking care of to this extent, but it quickly grew old as he tried to confine you to your bed, thinking no harm would come to you there. At that point you had put a terse stop to it all; as much as you loved him, a lady must have time to herself after all.

It had taken time for him to adjust, having caught him on three separate occasions spying on you, not to mention the times you did not, but eventually he settled, allowing you to escape him for a few hours at a time. You loved how protective he was.

Nine months later it all came to ahead. You had been laying in bed with him when you began to feel contractions.

“Orlo,” you tried to say casually. His eyes stayed planted on his book, but he turned his head slightly in acknowledgment.

“Yes, my love?”

“The baby’s coming.”

He nodded, casually as if he hadn’t heard, and then his head snapped towards you.

“W-what?”

“It’s happening!” you smiled at him, wincing as another pulse of pain shot through you. Orlo shot into action, messily pulling on his trousers while calling for a servant to fetch the midwife. He tripped over the carpet in the process, causing you to erupt into giggles despite the pain. Circling back towards you, he held your hand and helped you up gently. Sharply breathing, you leaned against him heavily as he escorted you to the set up you had prepared weeks prior: a mattress on the floor in the corner of your room with several pillows and no blankets. The bed was better positioned for the midwife’s work, while allowing for Orlo to still be next you you, the clingy man he was (you wouldn’t have it any other way).

Orlo softly laid you down, laying on his stomach beside you. Using his arm to support his head, he used the other to massage your stomach lightly.

Sweat gathered at your brow. The midwife arrived, carrying a towelette and bowl of water, Marial and Catherine trailing behind her. Sitting next to your legs at the edge of the bed, the midwife passed the bowl of water and towelette to Catherine who sat on a pillow next to the mattress. The cool water on your fevered skin was a relief. Orlo moved to grasp your hand in both of his, calmly looking into your eyes -when you managed to keep them open- and whispering sweet affirmations to you. As the midwife continuously told you to breathe, your mind slipped away, focusing on the connection of your hands and pushing.

—

Hours later you reemerged. You were told it had taken a few hours only; you were lucky for a woman. An immense weight slipped off your back, and you breathed a sigh of relief as the cleaned your child off, handing you them. The others helped you sit up more, but you paid them no attention, focusing on your beautiful child. You heard a sniffle next to you and you turned to find Orlo with tears in his eyes. He was gorgeous.

You vaguely heard Catherine drag Marial from the room to keep her from commenting.

Sitting crisscross next to you, he wiped away a tear and you eagerly held your baby to him. Orlo took them slowly, eyes glossy with emotion. He took a huge shuttering breath. You stared at the baby in his arms.

“You’re amazing,” he said.

“Aren’t they?” you asked, gazing at your child.

“Well, yes, but I was talking about you.”

Your eyes found his, finally filling with tears at the combination of pure joy and emotion at his words. Orlo leaned down for a loving kiss, cradling your child perfectly while doing so. He is going to be an amazing father, you thought. A voice interrupted the moment.

“What will the name be?” said the midwife, overly eager.

Looking to Orlo for an answer, you found him already gazing at you, waiting on you. Your heart stuttered, still, after these long years with him. You closed your eyes in thought, awkwardly grasping one of his. They shot open.

“René,” you beamed up at Orlo. He returned a blinding smile and carefully handed you René, tucking your hair back and stroking what little hair your child had.

Yes, he would be an amazing father indeed.

#can you tell i dont really care for dialogue? #heehee #orlo would be an amazing dad #and maybe daddy... 😳 #orlo #cathrine #count orlo #mine #the great #marial #count orlo/reader #count orlo x reader #ficlet