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usedtobecooler · 1 year

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a crying shame | prince paul x fem!reader

Pairing | Prince Paul x Fem!Reader

Warnings | sexual content (18+ minors dni), DUBCON, power dynamics (royalty and the help), coercion, general nastiness, use of derogatory classist terms, unprotected piv sex, fingering f receiving, hair pulling, dirty talk, pussy/clit slapping, spanking, orgasm denial, breeding kink. also brief mentions of deceased characters.

Word Count | 3.2k

A/N | oh look... another new character to add to the evergrowing list. i know this fic won't be for everybody, but i felt it was maybe a different take on our petulant prince that we were yet to see.

It was a peaceful Tuesday afternoon, when it happened. Things had been… quiet, since your mistresses passing. Days were spent being kept busy with stripping linen, emptying wardrobes and general upkeep in her chambers. Though the Royals were not known to be fair, nice or even gracious – Lady Alexeievna was always a wonderful woman. She wasn’t like the others were, she was polite, kind and was somebody that once you could’ve even called a friend.

You were sad to hear of her and her unborn son's tragic and untimely deaths, even sadder when you were summoned to the quarters to strip off the soiled sheets and scrub the wooden bedframe clean. Since, you spent every day dreading how soon it would be before the spoilt, petulant, obnoxious Prince were to be wed again.

Catherine would waste no time, Natalia was barely cold before she was snapping fingers and ordering her army of minions to look for the next suitable woman to become the future Queen. It was to be only a matter of time before he were to be married and another woman would grace these four walls, hopefully with the same kindness Natalia had.

Paul had only ever entered this wing once, and that was in the days after the deaths. You dreaded him ever coming back – it was an unpleasant encounter, hard to watch from the sidelines with the other women, and you knew in your heart that anger was boiling in his heart, getting closer to bubbling out as time went on.

You’re busying yourself with folding Natalia’s array of dresses, though you can’t see why you’re bothering. Money aside, they would be burned in a wooden pit in the coming days along with any other trace of her, by the request of Catherine and her son.

The noise of doors being burst open down the halls pluck your interest, though your brows furrow when you realise they’re edging closer and closer. You brace yourself, awaiting the impending slam of the doors into the bedroom – which finally come seconds later. An angry looking figure storming through on the back of the harsh clatter.

"Your —” You stutter, panicking for a moment, struggling to compose yourself, with the sudden burst of the doors, your heart racing and hammering against your ribcage like a rabbit running from its stalker, “Your Majesty, I was not expecting you."

You curtsey, eyes down toward the floor, as the Prince makes haste of entering the room, like a man on a mission. He reels, anger etched all over his face, nose scrunched up in distaste, a deep red flush down to his chest.

He takes no notice of you, waving you off, gunning straight for his late wife's beauty table, rummaging around like a mad man in her jewellery box. He throws things around, the various gold pieces falling to the wooden floors with dull thuds. You cringe silently, aware of the price of such luxuries that he is willingly tarnishing, battering up and breaking.

You watch under half lidded eyes as he stomps around aimlessly, clearly whatever he was looking for was not within eyesight and he would have to ask the help. He was a man who simply did not waste his time or breath on those beneath him, unless it was his army. The older ladies of the chambers told you he was colours of his father, but mostly Catherine, as much as the woman would never admit to that.

Paul had not been the same since the morning his mother had dragged him into his deceased wife's chambers and exposed her illicit affair with the Count. Not only had his wife and son perished, but he had to bear the knowledge now of understanding she was a harlot and their son was most likely not his at all.

He was an idiot. Everybody knew about Natalia and her discrepancies, all of the help included. So he could wander around like a pompous, stuck up arsehole however he pleased. He was a laughing stock, despite how he wandered these halls with a turned up nose and a sense of entitlement.

"Go on then, woman. You're bound to know where it is." Paul seethes, snapping you out of your thoughts. You don't look him in the eye, instead setting your sights just past his left shoulder.

"May I ask what 'it' is, Your Majesty?" You ask, fanning your delicate fingers over the fronts of your velvet mauve-coloured skirts. You glance over slightly, realising Paul is simply in a sheer night shirt and tights, not a speckle of rouge on his cheeks and his natural, dirty blonde curls unruly atop his head.

He was pretty, you had to admit. Underneath all of the garish clothing and the wigs and the makeup. He was a good looking man, regardless of what the Queen had said. Though his petulant attitude diminished his physical beauty in an instant.

"Don't act smart with me, girl. You know what." Paul's nostrils flare, and you finally lock eyes with him, watching as the emotions swirl around in his pretty brown eyes. You must have a confused look etched on your face, because he rolls his eyes and scoffs, "The fucking wedding band."

You suck in a sharp breath, your nervousness starting to diminish and in its place anger begins to take hold, "Your Majesty, it was at the Queen's request that Lady Alexeievna be buried wearing that band. She was –"

"You took my mothers orders over my own?" He's close to you now, breath fanning across your face. He's looking at you like he wants to grab you by the throat and throw you across the room, and you wait on baited breath for the assault, by now you had grown accustomed to the handsy men in the palace, "Answer me."

"She is the Queen, Your Excellency. She would - she would've had me beheaded, had I not done as requested." Your voice waivers slightly, a wince escaping you when Paul's large hand comes out to grab at your cheeks, squishing them beneath his harsh grip – his gold rings bite into your soft skin, sure to leave behind marks in their wake. Your lips puff together under the pressure, breathing jagged as your nostrils flare in a desperate attempt to breathe.

"You work for me. For my wife. Not my fucking mother." Paul spits in your face, and your bosom heaves as you desperately try to suck in a breath. You whimper quietly, as his other hand comes out to grip at your corseted waist, thumb dancing lightly over the satin ribbons that tied you in properly, "Hmm, such pretty garments for a nobody. Is this where my money was going? Making the scum at the bottom look pretty by my wife's request?"

Paul shakes your head for good measure before he loosens his grip to allow you to breathe, to talk, "She was a kind woman, Your Majesty. She was good to all of us ladies." Your voice is quiet, nerves shot as he plucks at the ribbons on your corset, tugging them loose. Your breasts spill out once the pressure is released, your scratchy undergarments the only material left to keep your modesty.

Paul stalks around your body, fingers playing with the ties on the back of your skirt as he speaks, quiet yet dominant, so close you can feel his breath on your ear, “Peasants such as yourself shouldn’t wear such luxuries. Such fine fabrics are made for the upper class, and as beautiful as you are, darling — you’re the furthest thing from it.”

The skirt drops to the floor and you wince, mortified by what’s happening. You’re powerless to stop it, the Prince would have you hung for treason if you so much as attempted to stop him. You’d hate to think what he’d do if you uttered a word of what was about to happen, after.

“Please, Your Excellency. You don’t have to—“ Your words are cut short when he grips at your undershirt, exposing your tits to the cool air in the room and leaving you gasping. It’s terrifying to admit that you’re not as scared as you should be, as he slithers back around your body until you’re toe to toe, his wide eyes drinking in the soft curve of your breast, the peak of your nipples, hardened in the chill.

“My, my,” He muses, and you make to cover yourself up with your arms, but he grips at your wrists and tugs them back down to your sides, tutting as he does so, “I don’t think so, malyshka. You’ll do as I tell you to, hmm? Otherwise there will be consequences.”

And you almost scoff at the rude pet name. Almost. Yet you find your thighs clenching beneath your underskirt as he soaks in every single square inch of your skin with his pretty, awestruck eyes. He backs you towards the edge of the bed, hands releasing your wrists in favour of tugging at the last of your undergarments and you let him, minimal fuss or resistance. It’s embarrassing, the way he clouds your brain and makes your cunt gush wet when he’s forcing himself onto you under the premise of death if you refuse.

“I’ll make this easy on you, darling, I promise.” He soothes, once the remainders of your clothing are pooled at your feet. You know better than to wait for him to demand you to finish the job, so you toe your worn in pumps off and slide the bundle of fabrics across the hardwood flooring. He watches you the entire time, a smug smirk playing on his lips as you almost willingly strip for him. He grabs at your wide hips, eyeing them – and he doesn’t even need to speak. You know what he’s thinking.

Perfect child bearing hips. Clearly not a virgin. But unmarried. So a harlot it is.

He spins you around with this almost grotesque salacious grin on his face, one hand removing itself from your hip to instead splay in between your shoulder blades, pushing your upper body onto the bed. You’re face down, quiet, ass in the air, like he clearly wanted.

The next move the Prince takes is unexpected. The hand remaining on your hips begins to run deftly along your ass, fingertips tracing your skin softly – a complete juxtaposition from the harsh way he’d spoken to and handled you previously. His pointer and middle finger run along the seam of your cunt, dipping into your folds and causing a gasp to fall from your lips.

“I told you I’d make this easy on you, malyshka,” There’s his god awful, condescending tone again, and you want for it to make you feel sick but all it does is make your tummy brew with want, “You don’t get to come, though. If you do, I'll spank you so hard you’ll not be able to sit for a week.”

Paul emphasises his words with a tap to your cunt, his fingertips slapping your clit almost perfectly, and it elicits a quiet moan in return. He hums, tsking under his breath, before slipping two thick fingers into your pussy, taking you by surprise. You cry out, lifting up onto your toes, squealing as he sets a fast pace.

“Your soaked cunt could almost be proof you’re enjoying this, darling,” Paul’s voice is giddy as he crooks his fingers down, running the tips along your frontal wall until you’re pushing your hips back into his hand. He skates his other hand down your back to place just above the curve of your ass, pushing your hips down, a warning, “Act the brat and see what happens, malyshka.”

You can’t help it – your guts churn, a tingling in your belly as he marks his words, you almost want to act up, just to see what the punishment would be. Lust is overtaking your whole body, clearly, because every last bit of nerve and fear diminishes, “S-Sorry, Your Excellency,” Your voice is wet as you apologise, his relentless fingers sliding in and out of your slick walls sending you reeling.

Paul clearly appreciates that you aren’t enough of a brat to address him as anything but his title, even with his fingers buried deep in your pussy – he pushes the curve of his hard cock into the supple flesh of your ass, grunting a little at the slight bit of relief it provides, “You will be if you keep it up.”

You let yourself go limp, allowing the pleasure of his fingers sinking into you to overtake your senses. It feels nice, he’s not as harsh as he could be and he’s still pressing onto all the right spots, despite his warnings of not letting you come. His cool rings catch on your entrance, causing you to shudder, and a sick part of you almost wants him to slide them into you, too, shove his fingers in as deep as they can go.

In your pleasure, you don’t hear or feel him shuffling behind you to shove down his own underwear, not realising until his fingers slip out of you and leave a drool of your own juices trailing down to your mound. You stay quiet, awaiting the head of his cock catching on your cunt.

It happens faster than anticipated and you clench on instinct once the tip slides through the mess you’ve made, running up and down the seam of your pussy and catching on your clit, just enough to make you whine. Paul tuts at that, grips onto your hip tightly with his hand, the other gripping the base of his cock and he’s sliding in, the size of him catching you by surprise as he splits you open.

“Oh, god,” You wail, fingers gripping into the sheets tightly as he sinks into you in one swift motion, knocking the breath right out of you. He gives you no time to adjust, he pulls out and shoves back in just as quickly, as harsh. Your tight cunt sucks him in, stretching comfortably to the sheer size and thickness of his cock.

Paul winds a hand tight in your hair, creating a makeshift ponytail, snapping your head back so it’s lifted off the plush sheets for him to see, “Filthy, malyshka. So wet for me, for a man who has forced himself on you? Pathetic.” It’s odd, how he can still sound so composed even as he rails into you, fucking you so hard and so rough that the noises echo in the large, mostly empty room, bouncing off the wooden walls and invading your ears.

Your eyes roll into your skull, you can’t help it. He fucks you like he hates you, and he probably does, but it makes it all the more delicious. You can feel every single ridge of his cock pressed tight in your cunt, the mushroom tip slipping against your g-spot over and over as he sinks in and out of you, making things even slicker. You know your pussy is dripping, probably pooling onto the floor too – just another mess for you to clean once he leaves.

He grunts as his hips clap against your ass, mesmerised and unable to tear his wide eyes away from where your bodies meet, the ripple of your supple flesh with every harsh thrust, “My, my,” He moans, slapping a firm hand on your ass just to hear you cry out, “How beautiful you’d look carrying my bastard child.”

You gasp, unable to contain it, cunt fluttering at the Prince’s words – and you know he felt it too, with the way his hips stutter and he chuckles darkly behind you. He winds your hair tighter in his other hand, pulls your head back even further until your neck is popping and he can watch your flushed face as he fucks you.

“Oh, you like the idea of that?” He laughs, words being spat like venom as you stare up at him with doe eyes, tears pricking at the corners and threatening to spill out, “Like the idea of being with child to me, hmm?”

You nod slightly, unable to rip your eyes away from him. He looks almost evil, what little softness he may have ever had was clearly gone in this moment, yet you find yourself being so attracted to it that it’s dizzying. Being treated like a worthless nothing and being told so, too. You cringe internally as your tummy begins to bloom with heat, a testament to how much you were enjoying it.

He can clearly feel it, the way your cunt begins to flutter and your ass pushes back ever so slightly, the tiny amount that the space can allow, with how deep the Prince is fucking you, grinding in deep and bruising at your cervix with every punch of his hips, “You want to come, malyshka?”

The tears finally spill from your eyes, wetting the apples of your cheeks and spilling down into your ears from how harshly snapped back your neck is, “Please, please. I’ll do anything,” You babble, voice as wet as your cunt is, and Paul grunts, beginning to lose composure. Your crying and begging clearly doing it for him, like a true sadist.

“Come then,” He says, like it’s easy. You mumble out tiny whispered ‘thank you’s, letting the pleasure start to course it’s way through your bones without repression, “You have ten seconds, you haven’t finished by then, it’s tough.”

You whine, like a petulant child, thrown off by his words. He chooses that moment in time to change his pace, because of course he does. He pushes your head back down into the mattress, near on suffocating you as he rams into you so hard you see stars.

“Seven, six…” His voice taunts you, and you try to block it out, focus on the noise of your drenched cunt sucking him in, the coil winding tighter and tighter and threatening to snap, “Three, two…”

Waves of pleasure wash over you before he can even count to one, your legs shaking and pussy spasming around his thick length as your release washes over you. You physically bite into the comforter, screaming as you come, high on your tiptoes and body going rigid. You feel the gushes of slick spilling out of you, dripping down Paul’s cock and making a mess.

He ignores you all together, fucks into you once, twice more with a harsh slap on your ass and then he’s coming, too. Burying himself impossibly deeper as his cock pulses in your spent walls, painting them with his release.

You lie there, unable to catch your breath – and he acts as if he hasn’t just fucked you into oblivion then filled you full of his seed. You cry when he slips out of you, making haste of pulling his trousers back up.

“Malyshka,” His voice almost has you jumping out of your skin, his plump lips on the shell of your ear, “You’re mine now, got that? Another man, in these halls or out of them, so much as looks at you, and you’re both dead.”

Anything you may have had to say to him dies in your throat. Lust and hope coursing through your veins at his very words.

#prince paul x you #prince paul x reader #joseph quinn fic #joseph quinn smut #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn x reader #my fanfic #mine #x reader #fem!reader

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palecleverdoll · 26 days

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Women of Imperial Russia: Ages at First Marriage

I have only included women whose birth dates and dates of marriage are known within at least 1-2 years, therefore, this is not a comprehensive list. This data set ends with the Revolution of 1917.

Eudoxia Lopukhina, wife of Peter I; age 20 when she married Peter in 1689 CE

Catherine I of Russia, wife of Peter I; age 18 when she married Johan Cruse in 1702 CE

Anna of Russia, daughter of Ivan V; age 17 when she married Frederick William Duke of Courland and Semigallia in 1710 CE

Anna Petrovna, daughter of Peter I; age 17 when she married Charles Frederick I, Duke of Holstein-Gottorp, in 1725 CE

Catherine II, wife of Peter III; age 16 when she married Peter in 1745 CE

Natalia Alexeievna, wife of Paul I; age 17 when she married Paul in 1773 CE

Maria Feodorovna, wife of Paul I; age 17 when she married Paul in 1776 CE

Elizabeth Alexeivna, wife of Alexander I; age 14 when she married Alexander in 1793 CE

Anna Feodorovna, wife of Konstantin Pavlovich; age 15 when she married Konstantin in 1796 CE

Alexandra Pavlovna, daughter of Paul I; age 16 when she married Archduke Joseph of Austria in 1799 CE

Elena Pavlovna, daughter of Paul I; age 15 when she married Frederick Louis, Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin in 1799 CE

Maria Pavlovna, daughter of Paul I; age 18 when she married Charles Frederick, Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach in 1804 CE

Catherine Pavlovna, daughter of Paul I; age 21 when she married Duke George of Oldenburg in 1809 CE

Anna Pavlovna, daughter of Paul I; age 21 when she married William II of the Netherlands in 1816 CE

Alexandra Feodorovna, wife of Nicholas I; age 19 when she married Nicholas in 1817 CE

Joanna Grudzinska, wife of Konstantin Pavlovich; age 29 when she married Konstantin in 1820 CE

Elena Pavlovna, wife of Mikhail Pavlovich; age 17 when she married Mikhail in 1824 CE

Maria Nikolaevna, daughter of Nicholas I; age 20 when she married Maximilian de Beauharnais, Duke of Leuchtenberg, in 1839 CE

Maria Alexandrovna, wife of Alexander II; age 17 when she married Alexander in 1841 CE

Elizaveta Mikhailovna, daughter of Mikhail Pavlovich; age 17 when she married Adolphe, Grand Duke of Luxembourg, in 1844 CE

Alexandra Nikolaevna, daughter of Nicholas I; age 19 when she married Prince Frederick-William of Hesse-Kassel, in 1844 CE

Olga Nikolaevna, daughter of Nicholas I; age 24 when she married Charles I of Wurttemberg, in 1846 CE

Alexandra Iosifovna, wife of Konstantin Nikolaevich; age 18 when she married Konstantin in 1848 CE

Catherine Mikhailovna, daughter of Mikhail Pavlovich; age 24 when she married Duke Georg August of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, in 1851 CE

Alexandra Petrovna, wife of Nicholas Nikolaevich the Elder; age 18 when she married Nicholas in 1856 CE

Olga Feodorovna, wife of Michael Nikolaevich; age 18 when she married Michael in 1857 CE

Maria Feodorovna, wife of Alexander III; age 19 when she married Alexander III in 1866 CE

Olga Konstantinovna, daughter of Konstantin Nikolaevich; age 16 when she married George I of Greece in 1867 CE

Vera Konstantinovna, daughter of Konstantin Nikolaevich; age 20 when she married Duke Eugen of Wurttemberg in 1874 CE

Maria Pavlovna, wife of Vladimir Alexandrovich; age 20 when she married Vladimir in 1874 CE

Maria Alexandrovna, daughter of Alexander II; age 19 when she married Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh, in 1874 CE

Anastasia Mikhailovna, daughter of Michael Nikolaevich; age 19 when she married Friedrich Franz III, Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin in 1879 CE

Nadezhada Alexandrovna Dreyer, wife of Nicholas Konstantinovich; age 21 when she married Nicholas in 1882 CE

Elizabeth Feodorovna, wife of Sergei Alexandrovich; age 20 when she married Sergei in 1884 CE

Olga Valerianovna Paley, wife of Paul Alexandrovich; age 19 when she married Erich von Pistolhkors in 1884 CE

Elizabeth Mavrikievna, wife of Konstantin Konstantinovich; age 19 when she married Konstantin in 1885 CE

Anastasia of Montenegro, wife of Nicholas Nikolaevich the Younger; age 21 when she married George Maximilianovich, Duke of Leuchtenberg in 1889 CE

Milica of Montenegro, wife of Peter Nikolaevich; age 23 when she married Peter in 1889 CE

Alexandra of Greece and Denmark, wife of Paul Alexandrovich; age 19 when she married Paul in 1889 CE

Sophie Nikolaievna, wife of Michael Mikhailovich; age 23 when she married Michael in 1891 CE

Victoria Feodorovna, wife of Kirill Vladimirovich; age 18 when she married Ernest Louis, Grand Duke of Hesse, in 1894 CE

Xenia Alexandrovna, wife of Alexander Mikhailovich; age 19 when she married Alexander in 1894 CE

Alexandra Feodorovna, wife of Nicholas II; age 22 when she married Nicholas in 1894 CE

Olga Alexandrovna, daughter of Alexander II; age 18 when she married Count George-Nicholas von Merenberg in 1985 CE

Maria of Greece and Denmark, wife of George Mikhailovich; age 24 when she married George in 1900 CE

Alexandra von Zarnekau, wife of George Alexandrovich; age 16 when she married George in 1900 CE

Catherine Alexandrovna, daughter of Alexander II; age 23 when she married Alexander Baryatinksy in 1901 CE

Olga Alexandrovna, daughter of Alexander III; age 19 when she married Duke Peter Alexandrovich of Oldenburg

Elena Vladimirovna, daughter of Vladimir Alexandrovich; age 20 when she married Prince Nicholas of Greece and Denmark in 1902 CE

Natalia Brasova, wife of Michael Alexandrovich; age 22 when she married Sergei Mamontov in 1902 CE

Elisabetta di Sasso Ruffo, wife of Andrei Alexandrovich; age 31 when she married Alexander Alexandrovitch Frederici in 1907 CE

Maria Pavlovna, daughter of Paul Alexandrovich; age 18 when she married Prince Wilhelm of Sweden in 1908 CE

Helen of Serbia, wife of Ioann Konstantinovich; age 27 when she married Ioann in 1911 CE

Tatiana Konstantinovna, daughter of Konstantin Konstantinovich; age 21 when she married Konstantine Bagration of Mukhrani, in 1911 CE

Irina Alexandrovna, daughter of Alexander Mikhailovich; age 19 when she married Felix Felixovich Yusupov in 1914 CE

Nadejda Mikhailovna, daughter of Michael Mikhailovna; age 20 when she married George Mountbatten in 1916 CE

Antonina Rafailovna Nesterovkaya, wife of Gabriel Konstantinovich; age 27 when she married Gabriel in 1917 CE

Nadejda Petrovna, wife of Nicholas Orlov; age 19 when she married Nicholas in 1917 CE

Anastasia Mikhailovna, daughter of Michael Mikhailovna; age 25 when she married Sir Harold Wernher in 1917 CE

59 women; average age at first marriage was 20 years old. The oldest bride was 31 at her first marriage; the youngest was 14.

#history #russian #imperial russia #house of romanov

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otmaaromanovas · 10 months

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The Lost Grand Duchesses: Part 1 - Anna Petrovna

Anna Petrovna was born in January 1708, officially out of wedlock. Her father, Peter ‘the Great’, had six daughters; Ekaterina, Anna, Elizaveta, Maria Natalia, Margarita, and Natalia. Peter planned to marry every daughter that survived infancy to a European house in order to consolidate alliances and friendships with Russia. Peter did not raise Anna, instead giving her to his younger sister Natalia Alexeievna and her husband Alexander Danilovich to raise. Peter’s plan to use the girls as alliance pawns influenced their childhood greatly; their education included embroidery, literature, dancing, and etiquette in order to be perceived as proper and lady-like. By her teenage years, Anna could speak five languages, no doubt to make her more attractive to European houses. Meanwhile, Peter’s sons were taught geography, history, and mathematics.

In 1721, serious marriage was on the table. Karl Friedrich of Schlewsig-Holstein-Gottorp was called to Russia, in order to meet Anna and her father. Karl had just entered his twenties, and his denouncers insisted that he was rude and arrogant. In comparison, Anna was barely thirteen years old, and incredibly shy.

This did not deter Peter, who was incredibly attracted by the idea of a Schleswig-Russian alliance. After a few years of shopping for other potential candidates, the marriage contract was signed. Ironically, the bride was not on the contract, and it was her father Peter and Karl Friedrich who signed. When the men signed the contract, Anna’s right to the Russian throne was instantly revoked.

In 1725, less than a year after the marriage between Anna and Karl Friedrich, Peter ‘the Great’ fell seriously ill. He called for Anna, whom he asked to write his will under his dictation. There has been great speculation over whether Peter planned to name Anna his heir; even though she had been forced to revoke her right to succession when her marriage was arranged, the Tsar of Russia still retained the power to elect his own heir regardless of the marriage contract terms. Peter was unable to speak, passing away shortly after, before declaring his heir. Whether or not Peter desired to make Anna heir remains one of history’s big ‘’what if’ questions.

In 1727, Anna and her husband Karl Freidrich moved to his native Kiel. Anna was deeply unhappy, missing her sister and nephew Peter Alexeievich; the Grand Duchess loved children. She wrote copious letters to her sister, Ekaterina, detailing her depression at being taken away from her home country. The rumours of Karl Freidrich’s arrogance appeared true; he preoccupied himself with affairs, leaving a pregnant Anna isolated.

In February, Anna gave birth to a baby boy, named Carl Peter Ulrich. Just days after, Anna contracted Puerperal fever, then known as ‘childbed fever’, a postpartum infection most likely caused by contaminated medical equipment and/or the medical staff not practicing proper hygiene. Anna became gravely ill, and requested to be buried back in her homeland, alongside her father in St. Petersburg. Her son Carl Peter survived the labour, and outlived his father, becoming the Duke of Holstein-Gottorp. When his aunt Elizaveta, Anna’s sister, died in 1762, Carl Peter became the Tsar of Russia, adopting the name Peter Feodorovich, Peter III.

Despite refusing to parent Anna himself, trying to marry her off when she was a child, and signing a marriage contract without Anna’s signature of consent, Peter claimed that Anna was his ‘favourite daughter.’ Only three of Peter’s fifteen legitimate children survived into adulthood. Anna died when she was only twenty years old. Her brother, Alexei Petrovich was imprisoned and tortured under the order of his father, dying from the torture. Only Anna’s beloved sister Elizaveta survived unscathed - the only out of fifteen siblings.