#i always feel like i need to watch an ep where orlo is more featured before writing

[thegreatfanblog]

hello!! i'm so in luv with orlo and wasn't sure if you were still taking fic requests? i was wondering if you could write something where maybe orlo helps the reader character through an anxiety or panic attack and comforts them afterwards? thank u! :,)

sorry it took a while!! i really hope you like it. thank you for the submission!!

//submissions still open//

Banquets in the palace were a double edged sword; bright and shiny things seemed to attract your crow brain excellently, and so you were quite entertained when the palace was decked out to accommodate the feast; though this was serotonin-inducing in its own right, your stomach couldn’t help but growl when you lay your eyes on the hundreds of different platters. Quail from eastern Russia, caviar from the black sea, Kobe beef from Japan, the finest chocolate from the Americas, the list went on. Sure, you were fed enough to be on your feet on a day to day basis, but your heart and stomach clenched for more. Being around such food made you dizzy. And so, when you were meant to serve nobles and government officials in a room full of exquisite food, you could not say you were in your best state of mind.

You were stationed directly behind General Velementov, Count Orlo, and a Lady of the court whose name eluded you. For what reason you could not tell why, as you were, at best, an adequate serf but nothing more. You would have expected a more experienced serf to have your spot, but you could not help but feel honored that you were stationed behind such important figures. Although you had such an important placement for the banquet, it did nothing to quell your loopy state.

Overall the night had went well, you were only asked to hand plates and refill glasses every now and then. The work was monotonous, and you did it with ease, becoming more confident as the night progressed. A mistake, you later realized.

The pitcher was less than a quarter of the way full. Not enough to fill a glass, but just enough to top one off. Which is exactly what the unnamed Lady demanded of you. All you had to do was take a step forward and pour, but you failed on step one. You foot slipped out from under you -a puddle from a smashed glass, you suspected- and you stumbled, the pitcher fell from your grasp and spilled its contents onto the arm of Count Orlo with a few drops landing on the foot of the Lady. Your eyes fixated on the deep red the spread through his snow white sleeve. You felt like throwing up.

“What the FUCK did you just do?”

The Lady’s screech snapped you from the Count.

“I-I’m terribly so-“

The backhand certainly took you by surprise. The sound of it additionally silenced the room, but you hadn’t noticed due to the ringing in your ears. Fuck, you could have a concussion.

She screamed again, ordering you out of the room, and you wordlessly followed her orders as you cradled your stinging cheek. Your warm, clammy hands did not help the matter.

Each step you took from the room you felt your chest tightening and your eyesight narrowing as darkness crept in from the edges. Holy fuck you needed privacy right fucking now, lest you feint in the halls. You were blind on the side she hit you, your ears still rung, and you felt your steps slowing at each progression. You were going to have a breakdown in the palace hall. Your brain had chosen flight, but your body had chosen to shutdown completely. It was entirely unhelpful.

A sudden pressure against your arm and waist took hold of you, a beacon of hope that you would not combust here and now. You drunkenly followed the other’s path, being pulled when you were meant to turn, and simply supported the rest of the way. They were on your fuzzy side, so your efforts to glance at them failed. Your chest constricted tighter and you stumbled.

“Almost there,” a low voice muttered worriedly, to you or themselves you were not sure. You hanged on nonetheless.

The sound of a door quickly opening was accompanied by a swift shove through the door, your body finally collapsing barely inside.

“Fuck-sorry!”

The figure came into view too late, your eyesight and mind slipping away as they came into view, shadowed.

—

“It’s okay, it’s okay -um- just breathe,” a voice roused your consciousness, senses returning to you. “You fucking idiot, she can’t hear you.”

The voice berated itself, and you were too loopy for any of its words stick. You were warm: Comfortably so; suspiciously so. The sense of touch returned to you as you felt a hand in your hair stroking softly. Your head was cushioned nicely above something warm. Almost humanly warm.

Your eyes began to finally pry themselves open, both still blurry from the faint, although one much more so from the Lady’s slap. You remembered what happened. Your chest clenched again, eyes slamming shit again in pain.

“Oh!” the voice from above recognized your awakened state, “You’re okay, no one can hurt you.”

Their hands swiped under your eyes, catching the pools of tears and rubbing them away gently. Their voice was soft as they guided you down.

“Yes, very good.”

Your cheeks heated slightly at the praise, inhaling deeply as you tried to contain your panic and straying heart. You took several minutes to stop panting. All of a sudden the adrenaline from your state of survival left you, deflating you under the careful ministrations from above. Exhaustion set in like a wet blanket.

Your eyes were so heavy but you blinked, clearing away the glaze from them. With one final blink, the figure above you was revealed. Oh. Oh no. It was Count fucking Orlo. The man you had assaulted with wine.

You swiftly moved, shooting your head up to find its path blocked, and you collapsed back down with a wince.

“Fuck, why?” Orlo asked, rubbing at his reddened forehead. That was the obstacle. You were so dead.

Words eluded you as you silently stared upwards at his sideways figure. You dare not move, halting your breathing completely. Your face seared with embarrassment, pain, and need for air. Maybe if you stayed still he would not notice you. Stupid.

“Please breathe,” he pleaded, hand still rubbing at the point of contact. Air returned to you as you gasped helplessly.

“That’s it, thank you.”

Your gasps again ceased, eyes finding purchase in his. One of his hands were still woven in your hair, and as if he knew where your thoughts had strayed, his hand shot back, pulling your tangled hair back with it. You winced.

“Sorry! Sorry!” he floundered, hands hovering above you as he worried. You took a deep breath.

“Fairs fair,” you replied simply, voice crackling with disuse. A laugh nervously erupted from him. Silence again. You’re eyes drifted to the side, escaping his stare.

“I better-“ you sat up slowly this time.

“Oh! Yes, yes.”

You removed your head from what turned out to be the Count’s lap, and decided it was better to ignore that fact, lest you make the situation worse.

Clothes rustled as both of you stood, evening out rumpled complexions and hair in disarray. At his movements, your eyes tracked down to his now deep red sleeve. You found yourself matching the color. His eyes followed yours and he stammered out an okay.

“It’s -well- fine really... I have too many shirts anyways...” Count Orlo trailed off.

The absurdity struck you, prying a laugh from your sore chest. He followed suit, howling along with you, like mad dogs.

What a fucking day, you marveled.