#back to your regularly scheduled pathetic subby dima from now on

[izloveshorses]

Okay, one more chapter, i promise

last update. they need some emotional closure before we let this one go. read on ao3 or under the cut <3

“Okay, how about, ‘Where is the dance club?”

“That’s an easy one,” Anya said. “Où est le club de danse?”

“Où est… la club…” 

“Le club. It’s masculine.” 

“Le club…” Dmitry was scribbling down the words in a little notebook, where he’d been diligently recording all the little French phrases she had been teaching him this afternoon, “dance.” 

She let out a giggle. “De danse. You keep forgetting the articles.” 

His cheeks were pink and he rubbed his face, hiding his smile. “This is a stupid language.” 

She grinned. Her head was propped on her elbow on the back of the chaise in their suite, feet tucked under her. “You have to learn it, stupid or not.” He looked up at her, still smiling, slouching to the point of reclining. “I don’t want you to be completely unprepared for when I’m not around to translate everything all the time.” 

She said it lightly, a playful and teasing spar, but his face fell, eyes serious and sad. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you.” 

The softness of his voice, the earnestness of his words, made her need to take a breath. Lately he had been the cause of an emotion stirring in her gut that she couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t the lust, it wasn’t the hunger, even though both of those things were very much there and present. It was something that made her chest a little tight, an ache somewhere deep and unfindable, a longing for something she didn’t even know. The ache of missing something she never had in the first place. 

That gravitational pull between them was drawing her head toward his— just leaning down over his lips, and considering crawling into his lap so they could explore this feeling in a less wordy way right here on this chaise— when the door of their suite rattled open. They sprung apart without even looking up. 

Vlad was making theatrics, sighing and whistling away while he removed his shoes at the door. “Anyone home?” he called. “Or did you both kill each other?” 

Dmitry answered, “In here,” and fiddled with his lighter, cigarette dangling from his beautiful lips. Anya tore her gaze away from him to the book she had impulsively snagged, though she couldn’t process the words on the page. 

“Well,” Vlad eased himself into the side chair and propped his socked feet up on the coffee table. “What did I miss? Anything interesting?”

Anya shrugged. “Just wandered around, saw some sights.” 

Vlad made a disinterested hum and Anya dared a glance over at Dmitry, who was barely keeping his smile from widening. To keep herself from giving anything away she stared down harder at her book. 

The sightseeing was partially true. They really did wander the city yesterday and this morning, snagging lunch and eating dinner under the Eiffel Tower, touring one of the museums, stopping at the monuments. She just omitted the part about how they held hands the entire time. Or how they spent their morning sharing the bathtub. Or how they woke up tangled in each other's arms between her bedsheets two mornings in a row. 

A lilt in his voice, Dmitry skillfully redirected the attention, “Did you get up to anything interesting?” 

Vlad scoffed but was clearly very pleased to be asked about his reunion with the Countess. “I was being productive, that’s what I was up to.” 

“Oh?”

Anya smiled down into her book. She enjoyed her alone time with Dmitry, obviously, but she did miss listening to the banter he could carry with his friend, the way they bickered like an old married couple. 

“Yes as a matter of fact,” Vlad went on. “Lily will arrange an audience with the Dowager at the ballet on Monday.”

Anya’s head snapped up, heart in her throat. “Monday?” That was so soon. 

“Monday! Not to worry, dear. Your dress will be ready soon enough.” 

Dmitry rose to face the window, puffing on his cigarette like a desperate man, hand in his pocket. A few days ago she would’ve taken that as bored indifference, but now she knew better. He was hiding his reaction. Vlad kept going on about tuxedos and arranging a cab and the opera house’s architecture, but Anya only stared at Dmitry’s back, the hair growing over the nape of his neck, his tense shoulders. 

They didn’t go to the club again tonight, as Anya had anticipated would happen when Vlad finally returned. But they did eat at the restaurant downstairs for several hours. Which meant they had to continue the mild ruse that they weren’t sleeping together, ignore their feet touching sensuously under the table, and not lean into him as gravity commanded when his fingers grazed her knee. Which was… a challenge, to say the least, after their two nights of living open and freely and affectionately around each other. But thankfully Vlad didn’t seem to notice, too happy and content after his weekend with the Countess, delighting in the food and narrating the wonders of French cuisine. 

In the room they played cards— Vlad was desperate to teach Anya how to cheat at poker— and otherwise the evening was uneventful. Dmitry kept flicking cigarette ash in a tray, the same way his sad and baleful eyes kept flicking away from hers if she caught him staring. Like he was watching a train leave the station. Like he wasn’t allowed to look at her.

Vlad was still up reading when Anya went to bed. Dmitry was obviously waiting for Vlad to retire first, but the man was still quite content, so she decided there was no point in trying to outlast him. And she figured that would be it for the night. So she said her goodnights, took the pins from her hair, slipped into her silky new nightgown. With her lamp on she was able to focus more on reading her book. Without Dmitry there as such an obvious and rewarding alternative. 

Anya hadn’t really let herself think about the endgame of this. This… new development with Dmitry. But now she let her thoughts wander to the boy just two doors away. To the warmth he had provided. How he may have cured her loneliness. Last night and the night before were starting to feel like a dream. But it had absolutely happened, if her soreness or the smell of sex still in the sheets was anything to go by. There was something very mammalian about it. How they were acting on their instincts and urges and innate wildness without much thought. She never imagined this could happen to herself. But here she was. 

A quiet rap on her door startled her out of her thoughts. Puzzled, she lifted the blankets and set her book aside and padded across the way. 

Part of her was surprised when Dmitry was on the other side of the door. And part of her realized she had been waiting for him. Him and his pleading eyes. 

When she let him in and let the door latch shut he was on her in seconds, mouth melded to hers, hands on her face and in her hair. She should’ve expected this. That he would need to work out some emotions this way. 

“This okay?” he whispered against her lips. 

“Uh huh,” was all she could say, with his tongue licking into her mouth. She knew he would stop if she asked, so she didn’t mind. Welcomed it and even craved it, actually, with the same intensity he was feeling. “But you need to be quiet.” 

All he did was smile and kiss her again. His hands were everywhere. On her neck and hip and back and ass and chest. Already she could feel herself trying to mold her body around his, fusing soft flesh to soft flesh. His hands clung to her waist when she stood on her toes to get closer. They bumped into her bed and they were slanted, poised between standing and laying, when she finally gave into gravity, pulling him down with her. 

That’s what they were. Gravity. 

Something that transcended time and space. Something that was so natural that when it vanished, she would feel untethered and lost, drifting away. 

“You thinking about me?”

Anya snorted. “Not everything is about you.” 

“You sure?” His fingers rubbed between her legs. “Not even this?” 

She smirked. “Especially this.” 

He carefully pulled her panties down, slipping them off her legs, and she shivered. She had yet to grow used to the feeling of his hands on her skin. His mouth tasting her wherever he wanted. At this rate, she didn’t think she ever would. Even just the gentle graze of his lips on her knee made her lose her mind. 

Anya wanted to stick every single body part she could think of into his mouth, just to see what it was like for him to be able to taste all of her. She even wanted him to slowly unzip her skin, however possible, so he could taste each and every one of her organs, even the unsexy ones, like her intestines or spleen or something. She wanted him to run his tongue over her heart or gnaw her ribs. Because she knew he would do it in that tender and gentle and careful way he did everything, and he would savor every bit of it and understand the importance of it all. And then she wanted him to crawl into her skin and zip them both back up, as one would a sleeping bag, until they were both cocooned in her flesh, just so he could feel what it was like to exist in her broken body, so she wouldn’t be so alone anymore. So no one would ever hurt him again.

None of this was possible, of course. But Dmitry would hold her as close to him as he could, his fingers digging into her flesh, his mouth hungry and curious and patient, that this was just the same. She couldn’t replicate the nightmare that was her mind for him. But he acted like he wanted to know what went on in her head, and maybe that was more than enough. Maybe that was all she needed to not feel so alone. 

Her hands found the hem of his undershirt and pulled it up until it was over his head, and now she had access to the hills and valleys of his front. She ran her mouth along his chest, along all the scars scattered over his skin, tongue and teeth playing intermittently, her hands running up and down his stomach, and he sighed when she mouthed at his nipple. His hand found the nape of her neck and he angled her head so he could kiss her mouth. All the while his hands were running up her thighs, bunching up her nightgown at her waist. 

They kissed for a few minutes, palming flesh and biting lips, and Dmitry ended up on his back, with Anya straddling his torso. He gleefully tugged at her hips. “You should sit on my face.” 

Her eyebrows rose. “I don’t want to suffocate you,” she said, even though the idea was making her blush like a virgin. 

“But what a way to go, right?” He was still pulling her forward so she was now sitting on his chest, eyes locked between her legs. “Please.” 

“You sure?” 

“I can handle it.” 

So she gripped onto the headboard for balance and straddled his head, slowly lowering herself until his open and hungry mouth met her. She gasped, her hips involuntarily jerking forward, and he hummed in delight. 

“Anya,” he murmured against her, “you can sit more, I promise I’ll be okay.” 

With some hesitation— she really didn’t want to suffocate him— she allowed her weight to fall a little more on him, and the feeling did make all the difference. His hands were on her ass, guiding her back and forth, while he practically feasted. His tongue was flicking around inside her and the feeling was so divine she had to let her head fall back and eyes shut. He was as eager and attentive as he always was, but she was in complete control here, and he seemed to like that, too. 

Her hips moved a little faster against him and he matched her pace every step of the way. His brown eyes met hers, and she held onto his hair, watching him watch her. Why not give him a bit of a show? While she was still moving she lifted her nightgown off of her, now completely bare for him. He couldn’t exactly voice his approval but his enthusiasm was obvious enough. 

With one hand gripping the headboard and the other in his hair, she fell apart above him, every nerve narrowing to where he was touching her. She sat back on his chest. He was panting hard, lips parted, staring at her in awe. 

Instead of letting her recover, he moved her hips down, their centers touching. “Sorry, I just—” he sighed, shuddering, “need to be inside you.” 

A few minutes ago he had been teasing, playful. But now he was almost desperate. Even though her thighs were burning with strain she still lifted herself enough to fish him out of his pants and angle him against her. “I know, Dima.” As she sunk around him she ran her hand down his face, thumb catching on his parted lip, down his chest, down his stomach, propping herself up with her other hand. 

He thrusted his hips up, forcing himself the rest of the way in, like he would die if they spent another second apart. “You’re so good for me.” 

She hummed softly, trying to find the right angle. She could feel him everywhere. His hips kept moving up, sliding in and out of her, hitting her so perfectly she had to bite back a moan. 

“I know that feels good.” He was letting out broken breaths, just as eager, just as needy. Her thighs burned but he felt so good and he looked so handsome like this she powered through, moving faster. “That’s it. You know what to do.” 

She pressed her palm over his mouth. “You have to shut up.” He was being so noisy. 

His tongue swiped over her palm mischievously, but his smile didn’t meet his eyes. “You just feel too damn good. Can’t help it.” 

“But you don’t want— our neighbor to know what’s—” she had to let out a breathy exhale when he was thrusting faster, spurring her to pick up the pace, “to know what’s going on.” 

His hands were all over her, guiding her hips and squeezing her breasts and gripping her thighs. Like he couldn’t decide the perfect way to touch her. “Need you to come on me, okay?” he whispered. “You feel so good when you do.” 

“Dima, I don’t know if—” 

“You can. Please, come on.” She was so tired, but his voice was so soothing, so persuasive, so addicting. “I know you’re close. I got you.” 

She bit her lip, moving harder against him. His hand tightened around her hip to steady her and he met her thrust for thrust, knowing exactly where she needed him, like he knew her body better than she knew it herself, watching her attentively. She was braced above him, hands on either side of his face, her hair cascading over her shoulders, eyes locked with his. Her legs were so tired but… there. She could reach this peak, like this, with him helping her along. 

But it wasn’t until his fingers found between her legs, like he couldn’t wait any longer, that she shattered, fell apart. This would never get old. She could let herself fall apart like this because she knew he would always be there to put her back together. 

His arms came around her spine, her pelvis, her neck, kissing her hard. And then she was on her back with him still hard and needy inside of her. “Sorry, I just—” he was braced above her, already thrusting in and out. “I need too—” 

Dmtiry was unable to finish, too overcome with need. “It’s okay,” she whispered, breathing hard, her hands holding his face. “I got you, Dima.” 

He was pistoning in and out of her like a machine, eager to reach his peak, too, now that he had permission. There was a bit of darkness in his eyes, in the force of his hips, but she held him all the way, toes curling at the feeling of him, knee hooked over his hip. This was how he was working out whatever was bothering him. And she had to admit it felt good to be needed. To be loved. Even like this. 

They hadn’t said it, that word. Not out loud anyway. 

But she could pretend, right?

Finally, with a great thrust and a broken exhale, his hips locked with hers, filling her in every way. He kept moving a little, one thrust for each twitch of his body, for each wave that crashed over him. And the world stopped moving for that mere slip of time. 

He wouldn’t meet her eyes as he pulled out, almost sullen, and then he relaxed, half on top of her, leg between hers, arm over her waist. He was panting hard into her neck.

Anya ran a hand through his hair, recovering herself, thinking hard. He was still a difficult man to understand. But if she learned anything from the past few nights, it was that the only way to understand him was to test her theory. 

“Dima… you’re not going to lose me.”

He stiffened, holding his breath. There it was, then. She was right. 

Maybe she understood Dmitry more than she thought. 

Finally, he responded, “You don’t know that.”

“I do, though.” She wove her fingers between locks of his hair, her other hand resting above her head. “What makes you think I would let that happen?” she asked. He pressed his face into her chest, hiding, breathing deeply in the skin between her breasts. “Come on, Dima. Talk to me.”

He let out a heavy, long sigh. “I’m afraid,” he finally whispered, “of what will happen after you meet the Dowager.” 

“Yeah?” Her fingertips scraped his scalp. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.” His nose was brushing against the scar cutting through her chest, her longest one. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean to become such a distraction— you’re the one with the toughest job coming up, I’m sorry. I should be helping you.”

“Dmitry, don’t— keep going. Keep talking. Please.” He was deflecting, being stupid, being stubborn and selfless. She tried to joke, “I’m not even nervous about it with you around to keep me company, anyway,” but it didn’t land the way she wanted. He just pressed his face even harder into her sternum. Like he was trying to bury himself. “Is it… do you think this… you and I… will end?”

He took another heavy breath. “I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again.”

She let that hang in the air for a minute. Of course she had wondered the same thing, before she knew how Dmitry felt about her. A month ago she would’ve taken that as he didn’t want to see her again. But she knew better now. That it was some deep insecurity branded into his mind he had to work through. She whispered, “Don’t you think we deserve a say in all of that?”

“Maybe, but why—” his voice was muffled with his face pressed against her like that— “what would someone like you want with someone like me?”

“Hey, don’t talk like that.” She found his face with her hands and held his cheeks so he would look at her. His eyes were wet and it broke her heart a little bit. “Hey, Dima, hey,” her voice softened and she smoothed his eyebrows, and he nuzzled into the heel of her palm. This was who Dmitry was, deep down. A boy with his heart out on his sleeve and patches in his pants and too much pride in his chest and too much insecurity to consider that maybe she could adore him. A lost, broken, thoughtful, loving boy. Her boy. 

Dmitry looked like he was already saying goodbye. “What if the Dowager doesn’t accept me being with you?” he asked. “What if you find something better on the other side?” 

“What if she doesn’t accept you, what if she doesn’t accept me?” she challenged. “What if the con falls apart? What if the sky falls, what if the Seine floods, what if what if what if!” she shook her head in fond exasperation. One of her hands trailed down his neck, his shoulder, thumbing at one of the bullet wounds that had healed over. One of their twin scars. “Do you ever stop thinking?”

His lips twitched, as if in spite of himself. He was always so self-deprecating. And then he was looking at her with his wet eyes and upturned eyebrows. “You make things feel quieter,” he admitted. “You make it all go away.” 

She swallowed at this confession. Her knuckle brushed a tear from his cheek. “Then fight for it.” 

His jaw clenched and somehow his eyes got even sadder. “I just don’t think dowager empresses like street rats in their house, Anya.” 

She wasn’t sure how to describe it, this emotion storming in her chest, this emotion that was only invented for him. The enormity of it. It was rather scary how much she was already spiraling about him. How she was ready to scrap the con altogether, to just live like this with him, swanky hotel or no. How forever was starting to look like his smile and sound like his laugh and feel like his arms. 

She wasn’t ready to voice all of that aloud, though. And she wasn’t sure if he would understand the bit about how she wants him to literally crawl inside her skin and stay there so she could keep him. At least, not right away.

So Anya would have to think of a more tangible way to make him believe her, then. 

“First of all,” she started, “if this particular dowager empress doesn’t like you, then she certainly won’t like me. I’m just as much of a street rat as you are.” 

He gave her a weird look. 

“And if she doesn’t like you, well, then, I want nothing to do with her.” 

“Anya…” 

“I’m serious. If she can’t see…” she felt tears prick her eyes, surprised by the sudden emotion. Perhaps it was best for them both to leave that thought unfinished. “And at the end of the day, if we’re separated with no hope of reconciling, if something takes you away from me…” she rubbed at his cheekbones, still amazed by the structure of his face. “I’ll find you again.” 

His eyes raked up and down her face, holding his breath, as if not daring to believe her. She pulled him down to give him a kiss. It was soft and gentle and simple, but by the time he pulled away, he was smiling again. His smile, the one that lit up the room, the one that met his eyes. 

“You won’t lose me,” she repeated, keeping her voice stern and soft at the same time. “I promise.” 

He kissed her again. Her mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids, her jaw, her neck. So much that she started silently giggling. 

“I’m guessing you feel better?” she asked. 

“Uh huh.” He met her eyes. “I don’t know how you do it.” 

She sighed, touching his hair. “I know. I’m just so smart and wonderful.” 

He laughed, too loud for this late in the night. “You are.” He wet his lips, swallowing. “Do you want me to go…” 

“Absolutely not.” Her arms came around his neck. “Never.” 

Dmitry smiled with half his mouth, then kissed her again. Slow and lingering and sweet and everything she could ever want. “Okay, Anya,” he murmured, settling to lay his cheek on her chest, tucked under her chin, “I’ll stay. As long as you’ll have me.” 

Anya settled deeper into the blankets, understanding what he was saying. That he wasn’t just staying tonight, but for the foreseeable future. “Good.” 

so no to the dancing

dimya one shot, canonverse, 5k, M, smut, jealousy 👀 some rough and possessive sex under the cut, but like in a feminist manner so it's okay don't worry about it. i posted this two weeks ago but i was embarrassed to link it here lol but whatever. here u go. have fun ladies <3 read on ao3 or down below!

Anya couldn’t figure him out. 

Not when they met in a dusty palace, arguing on either side of a broken chaise, when she was about to pass out from hunger. And certainly not now, months later, in this crowded nightclub in Montmartre, with these glances they kept stealing, eyes burning brighter than the embers at the end of the cigarettes between their lips.

It’s not like Dmitry wasn’t… complicated. He was. He had a short childhood and a long life of hardship, he loved his city but hated his country, he revered his father but was too apolitical to follow in his footsteps. He was a walking contradiction, for sure. But she was usually pretty good at reading people. Figuring out their motive, their ticks. Nothing about Dmitry made any sense to her, though. All she had was a collection of data and observations that didn’t add up to anything. He would mess with his hair when the conversation lulled. He lit a cigarette when he was upset. He smiled a lot but she didn’t think he always meant it.  

There was a time where she hated his guts, she had to admit. And then he confused her even more by revealing his past, how he came to be the man he was now. Anya couldn’t picture him as a child. Dmitry was just. A fully formed man from the beginning. A fully formed, certified asshole, in her mind. 

Once they escaped Saint Petersburg and Russia herself she realized somewhere along the way that hatred had shifted into something milder, something fond. She found herself whispering with him in the dark, when neither of them could fall asleep, musing what they would do in Paris when they finally made it, all while Vlad snored softly on the other side of the fire she had built. He was good at telling stories. Since she had no stories of her own to tell, not with this empty gap in her memory, she clung onto his every word with white knuckles. 

Somehow Dmitry had sort of become her best friend. Somehow he was sort of the person she trusted the most in this world. 

And then they hit Paris, and something else shifted. It was almost like he was avoiding her altogether. Friendly touches reverted back to walking in wide arcs around her. Lingering smiles changed to eyes flitting away the second she looked at him. It made her feel foolish. Somewhere along the way she had thought… well, honestly, there was something… simmering between them. What that something was she hadn’t even had time to explore. But there had been a weight to his lingering gazes, a meaning behind his hand brushing her own. And now he acted like she burned him at the barest glance. A new form of loathing took shape within her.

She couldn’t decipher it. She already had so much on her plate, especially now that they were in Paris and their deadline was fast approaching— as soon as Vlad could get them an audience with the dowager empress they would all part ways. She didn’t mean to let her confused heart get mixed up in all this. 

When Vlad insisted on going clubbing, Anya had welcomed the distraction, even if her feet ached from exploring the city all day. They had traded their tired Russian winter wardrobe for a spring Parisian chic, with light and flowy dresses and freshly pressed suits and stylish chignons. Anya didn’t look his way but she felt Dmitry’s eyes burning through her skin the whole way here, his hand like fire on her lower back as they stepped from the cab, the heat of his body beside her when they ordered their drinks. 

Vlad found a dance partner impressively fast, Anya admitted to herself, and left the two of them to swim in their thick, simmering silence on their own. Fair enough. She would be sick of the pair of them, too, if she were in Vlad’s shoes.

“Want another drink?” Dmitry asked over the noise of the swing band without looking at her. 

Damn, he really was handsome. Even if he wasn’t meeting her eye and his expression was entirely unreadable, he had such a remarkable profile, with the bump in his nose and his princely chin and his stern mouth. His new suit was tailored just right, broadening his shoulders and stretching over his chest. His hair was combed but one stubborn lock fell over his left eyebrow in defiance. Anya wet her lips. “I’m still working on this one, but thank—” 

He wordlessly left her side, weaving his way through the crowd towards the bar. 

All right. 

It wasn’t difficult to piss her off, sure, but something about Dmitry would always bring her blood to a boil, and now was no exception. So when another gentleman approached her to ask for the next set, she felt no remorse when she set her half empty glass on the nearest table and accepted his hand, even if he looked a little wolfish and angular and not at all her type. 

The gentleman was a good dancer. He waltzed her through one set, and then the next, and the next, without breaking a sweat or stepping on her toes. He even made her laugh once. She wasn’t sure if it was on purpose, but she still laughed all the same. 

At one turn, though, her eyes found his: Dmitry was staring daggers at them across the crowded dance hall, sucking on a cigarette with a tight jaw. He downed his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before shouldering his way through the other wallflowers. Anya politely excused herself from her partner and did her best to escape the dance floor without stumbling. 

Anya followed him all the way outside. She hadn’t realized how hot and stuffy it had been in the club, the air thick and stifling with other dancers, until she came out here, where the cool spring evening chill was welcomed. The club was tucked away in a deserted alley, with nothing but cigarette butts and streetlamps for company. This must have been some side entrance because no one, not even a bouncer or a server on their break, was around. Dmitry was about a dozen steps ahead of her. “Where are you going?” she called. He didn’t stop. 

“Back to the hotel,” he said, barely over his shoulder. She was trying to catch up with him, but his long strides were difficult to compete with.

“But I’m not ready to leave.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

Her fists clenched at her sides. “So you were just going to leave me?” 

“I thought you found better company.” 

The words cut through her, searing. She finally caught up with him, walking side by side. He still only stared straight ahead without halting. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

“Nothing, it’s whatever.” Dmitry took another puff of his cigarette and blew out plumes of smoke with his words. “It’s a dance club, so go back and dance, I don’t care.” 

Anger flared up. She shoved at his shoulder. “It’s not like you were going to ask me to dance.” 

“I said I don’t care!” he lifted his hands as if surrendering. His expression was still guarded. “You can do whatever you want. I’m not your mom.” 

“What if I want you to care?” 

For a brief moment that mask flickered, his eyes darting to hers in curiosity. But then that moment was over in a flash and he scrubbed his face clean of any emotion with his palm, leaving nothing but a cool neutrality behind. “Sorry to disappoint.” 

Anya stayed planted while he was still walking away. An idea suddenly struck her, plain as day. A new angle to look at, a new method to unraveling the mystery that was Dmitry Sudayev. “He kept calling me cherie, by the way,” she tested, keeping her voice disinterested. 

Dmitry froze in his tracks. And that was when she knew she had him. She was onto something.

Her heart raced. “He even invited me to come home with him tonight. Told me he’s got a penthouse suite right on the Champs-Elysees and everything.” 

When Dmitry turned to face her his eyes were black. Smoking obsidian. “Well?” he said after a very measured breath. “Are you?” 

She shrugged, as if nonchalant. “I can’t think of a reason not to.” 

His nostrils flared, like he could fucking smell the man’s cologne on her still.

Anya lifted her chin. “Why?” she asked. “Does that make you jealous, Dmitry?” 

That was it. She had him pinned. His ears went bright pink in the low lamplight and he had the audacity to laugh. Angry and humorless, but a laugh all the same. “Jealous? Really? You think too highly of yourself sometimes.” 

“I think you’re fooling yourself if you believe that.” 

He angrily snuffed his cigarette between his shoe and the cobblestone. “You can do whatever you want with whoever you want, just leave me out of it.” 

“Do you want me to?” 

His eyes snapped back to hers, weary, angry. “You don’t need my permission.” 

“Do you want me to,” she repeated, more insistent. They were close now, not quite nose to nose, but too near each other for her to miss the way his chest rose and fell with each breath, like it pained him, and the way his eyes were a match about to burn down to fingertips. 

His nostrils flared again, muscles in his jaw flexing. He slowly shook his head.

“No.”

No. Now they were getting somewhere. She pushed at his chest. Not enough to make him stumble away, but enough to get him to pay attention. The attention she had been wanting for a really long time, she realized. “No, what?” 

His exhale hit her face. “I don’t want you going home with that guy.” 

His tone was low, dangerous, a warning. Thin and brittle and about to snap. “Then give me a reason not to.” 

Anya barely had time to suck in another breath before his mouth was on hers, crashing into her so forcefully she had to stumble backwards to catch her footing. But Dmitry didn’t let her fall, his hands pulling at her waist and the back of her neck, leveraging her against him. 

Damn, Dmitry could kiss. It was messy and desperate and frantic but it was perfect, his teeth pulling at her bottom lip, bunching the skirt of her dress into a fist. The cold air made goosebumps erupt all over her exposed thigh. Her mouth parted and her tongue swiped at the seam of his lips, which he graciously allowed access, and when her tongue slid under his he let out a moan so sinful she had to cling onto his arms to keep her knees from wobbling. She landed hard against the damp wall, and even though he was being forceful and rough he still cradled her head so she wouldn’t hurt herself on the brick. He could play tough all he wanted, but deep down he was a softie. 

“This what you wanted?” he asked, his voice still low and gruff. “Needed some attention?” 

Now that he was all in her space, crowding her and mouthing at her skin, she welcomed this feeling pooling in her lower stomach, something she hadn’t paid much attention to in a while. Sure, she was no stranger to desire. But something was different about him. A strange, darker need, sprouting from how fiery they could make one another. Her hand came up to fold into his hair. “Maybe.” 

Dmitry moaned a little when her fingers wove through his locks. Another discovery of the night. “You still gonna go home with him?” 

No, absolutely not. Anya could barely remember what that guy even looked like. But she only smiled a little and said, in her best princess voice she could muster, “I’m thinking about it.” Her words had the desired effect— Dmitry let out a gruff noise and shoved his knee between her legs, giving her access to relieve some of the pressure that had ballooned up there. 

“You don’t need him,” he breathed. “You don’t need anybody. Just ask me to take care of you and I will. Whatever you want.” 

Her head tilted back, letting him cradle her skull, while her hips, nearly involuntary, thrusted back and forth, rubbing herself on his muscular thigh. “I think you’re smart enough to figure out what I want.” 

His mouth cascaded down her neck, teeth scraping over the column of her throat. If they had done this earlier in their acquaintance they would’ve had to fumble with scarves and coats and wool to do all of this so she was grateful they had waited until now. Now all she had on was her thin, silky dress, and her new underwear, all of which the latest Parisian fashions, which tended to focus on revealing more skin than what was acceptable back home. More neck, more cleavage, more leg, which he was clearly enjoying, with his hand up her skirt and bruising her thigh and his mouth sucking on the base of her throat. Dmitry bit down at the junction between her neck and shoulder, something possessive and hungry, earning a surprised gasp. There was no doubt a bruise would bloom here in minutes. 

“You’re so sensitive…” he swiped his tongue over the mark, as if to sooth it or maybe admire his work, she wasn’t sure, “how long’s it been since you’ve let a man touch you like this?” 

Her heart was beating so fast against his, her chest heaving, face hot and flushed. His thigh between her legs wasn’t enough. “Too long.” 

His hand cupping the nape of her neck slid forward until it was around her throat, not squeezing or anything, but angling her jaw so he could kiss underneath, and also holding her in place. “I could touch you more,” he murmured, his hand gripping her thigh loosening to slide between her legs, fingers rubbing at her over her panties. Somehow he had sensed her need. “If you ask politely.” 

She squeezed the hair she was holding. “You’re in no position to negotiate.” 

“Aren’t I?” His thumb pressed into the base of her throat at the hollow of her collarbone, just a little. She knew he would never hurt her. Not even this way. But the thought of him threatening her like this was arousing and, absurdly, a little funny. 

Anya lifted her chin at him, meeting his eye, making sure he was watching her. “I don’t think this other gentleman would make me ask.” 

His nostrils flared, eyes hooded and dark and flashing with something ominous, as predicted. He grabbed her wrists in one hand and locked them above her head, all in a silly show of dominance for this little performance, and his other hand started fiddling with her underwear. He was probably looking for things to untie or unbutton but all she had on was a pair of lacy french panties. His eyebrows rose in surprise. “So accessible.” He kept playing with the waistband of her panties, just to torture her. “These new?” 

They were indeed new. She smiled a bit. “Bought them with the dress.”

Dmitry sighed. “Love this city,” he mumbled. “I could barely look at you since we got here, you’re too fucking irresistible.”

She frowned, struggling to escape his grip on her wrists. “But you’ve been ignoring me since we got here.”

“Because I can’t— I don’t think I can control myself around you right now.” 

He was so fucking confusing. This was why he had been ignoring her? She was too attractive to him? That was it? “All it took was a bath and some new clothes for you to notice me, huh?” 

“I’ve always noticed you,” he whispered. “Always. Driving me crazy since you walked into that goddamn palace all those months ago.” His lips twitched, like he thought of a joke. “But you do smell better now, I’ll admit that.” 

This made her laugh, because it was true. “So do you—”

She gasped when his hand finally slipped down the front of her underwear all the way, cupping her, rubbing at her. “Jesus Christ,” he marveled, “no wonder you’re so— this all for me? Or for him?”

Anya bit her lip, pressing herself harder against his hand. “What answer will make you shut up and touch me more?”

In spite of everything, the bastard grinned, white teeth and everything, like he figured out her game and was absolutely delighted to play. “Need me to take care of this for you?” 

His fingertips were making slow, sensual ovals, making her lose her composure a little. “Make me feel good.” 

Two of his fingers plunged all the way inside her, making her gasp, while his palm rubbed at her. His hand was so large and perfect, fingers thick and round. His other hand holding her wrists loosened its grip and slid down one of her arms and she let out a keening noise when his thumb brushed her nipple over the fabric of her dress. 

“So needy,” he dipped his head, pressing more hot kisses to her neck, “poor thing. All hot and bothered with no one to help.” His lips sucked around her pulse point behind the corner of her jaw. “You have needs, I get it. But why even bother finding someone else to satisfy you when I’m right here?” 

He had taken on a softer tone, bordering on cooing at her, and for some reason this irritated her more than anything. “You piss me off so much,” she mumbled, trying to catch her breath. 

He laughed a little, like he knew what she meant, like she pissed him off too. “Does arguing with me get you all worked up?” 

Her hands tangled in his hair. “Does picturing me with another man get you all worked up?” 

“No, it— it makes me fucking angry,” he grunted, his voice cracking. “Don’t like thinking about that.” His hand was moving a little more frantically now. Like this was how he proved himself. “You think that guy— anyone else— could make you feel this good?”

“How do you know he can’t?” she asked, just to piss him off. He all but growled in her ear. 

“Just by looking at him— he’s a fucking selfish piece of shit.” His fingers were knuckle deep, knocking against what felt like every nerve in her body, with his palm rubbing at her. It was a little difficult to focus on what he was saying. “Wouldn’t know the first thing about how to touch a woman. He’d probably just fuck you until he was done, wouldn’t care if you were satisfied or not...” The rest of his sentence trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish. Clearly he knew how to pleasure her. His fingers inside her was evidence enough.

She thought of something else. “You know,” she started. “If I’m— if I’m really her— you know I’ll have a whole lineup of suitors, right?” 

He nipped at the soft skin of her neck in warning. “No.” 

“No?” she asked incredulously. “I absolutely will. That’s how this works.” 

He lifted his head to look at her, his expression a calm satisfaction. “You know you won’t need them, don’t you?” He shook his head. “None of them could ever get you this riled up, not the way I do.”

That was true— she didn’t think anyone else existed with the perfect skillset to frustrate her so the way Dmitry Sudayev could— but there was no way in hell she was admitting that now. Even if her hips were wobbling against his hand, clenching around his fingers. “And you’d legally have to do everything I say.”

He gritted his teeth. “I don’t like being told what to do.”

A bold statement, considering he was right where she wanted him. Considering he had done everything she had asked him to so far. 

His fingers were so long, buried deep inside her, pressing every sensitive nerve she had, and the heel of his palm was cupping her so perfectly, moving rhythmically. “Fuck, Dima,” she moaned, the name slipping from her lips. Her head tilted back against the brick and her eyes had to flutter shut. “Don’t stop.” 

“Look at me,” he grabbed at her jaw, angling her face towards his. So she opened her eyes and glared at him. “I’m not loyal to princesses and kings, Anya. But I am loyal to you.”

His surprising sincerity, in the midst of how lewd and filthy he had been treating her, was a little confusing. He towered over her, surrounding her on all sides, cocooning her from the real world, eyes dark and alluring and honest. In a way, he was more protective of her than anything else. Her arms came around his shoulders and her fingers slipped into his hair again. 

He bit at her shell of her ear. “You gonna come for me or what?”

She was so close. But she spat, “Make me.” 

He growled in frustration. “You’re such a brat sometimes,” he hissed, “spoiled rotten. Mean as hell to me.” 

She yanked hard on his hair. “If I’m a brat, you’re a bitch.” 

He laughed, like he couldn’t agree more. “This mouth,” his thumb brushed over her parted lips, “don’t know how it hasn’t gotten you into more trouble.” When he pressed the finger over her tongue, like he was experimenting to see how much he could get away with, she bit him with her teeth, just hard enough to get him to react. He groaned. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.” 

“Don’t I?”

A third finger slipped inside of her and it felt so good her vision went white for a second. Holy shit, she was so close. His hand covered her mouth entirely. “So fucking noisy,” he hushed. “Bet it pisses you off how good I’m making you feel right now.” 

He wasn’t wrong. But she didn’t care— all of the bickering and the tension from the last few months was piling up and she was about to earn her payoff for all of it. 

But then he suddenly slipped his fingers out of her, entirely stopping. The loss of momentum was that of tripping while running downhill. 

“Fuck you!” she hissed. All he did was laugh, sucking each of his fingers clean. “I wasn’t done.”

“We’ll finish this up at the hotel,” he cooed. 

She shoved at his chest. “No, we’re finishing this here.” 

He still wasn’t taking this seriously. “No.” 

“It’s now,” she tugged at his pants, popping the button open, “or never, Sudayev.” 

When she started palming at him, his hips thrust himself into her hand, a new noise slipping from the back of his throat. “Dirty girl.” He let her fumble with undoing his pants, neither bothering with his jacket or vest or suspenders. 

Dmitry lifted her by her hips and she scrambled to cling onto his shoulders, her back scraping on the cold brick, legs wrapping around him. His grip on her was bruising tight, but he had a forearm behind her head, protecting her from the hard wall. Suddenly she was at eye level with him and her breath caught in her throat. He really was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

He was breathing hard. “You wanna know why I’ve been ignoring you?” 

He was inside her in one, sharp thrust, taking up every possible inch of space within and around her. 

“It’s because I’m so fucking terrified of what’s gonna happen to me when I lose you,” he confessed. “Whether it’s to some suitor who wants Anastasia, or some gentleman at a dance club, or— or anyone who actually deserves you. And I knew if I let myself… I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to let you go.” He shifted her in his grip. “Didn’t want to frighten you off with how bad I wanted you.” 

He was already moving. Clumsy and needy and messy, sure, but. She couldn’t breathe for a second. She could feel him everywhere, in her gut, in her toes, even all the way up to her throat. What could she even say to that, anyway? He was basically confessing this was more than just a fleeting moment of passion for him, confirming her suspicions. It was a lot to take in. Both emotionally and physically. 

“How much?” She managed. “How much did you want me?”

His next thrust was particularly deep and hard, insistent. “So fucking much.” 

He was so close to her, fingers sinking into her flesh, his front pressing into her own, like he was trying to actually climb under her skin in every way imaginable. “Like you said…” her nails dug into his suit jacket, waiting for him to meet her eye, “I don’t need anyone else.” 

That flicker of insecurity vanished, replaced with his smug grin. “Damn right.” 

They were moving a little more steadily now, not as clumsy. There was a ferocity to it, though, an animalistic haste and speed she didn’t expect from him. A sort of desperation that only starving men had. His fingers were bruising her thigh, holding her whole body aloft with ease, moving so fast she could hardly keep up. He mouthed at the side of her neck again and she couldn’t keep the embarrassing noises from escaping her throat. 

“God fucking damn it, Anya.” His breaths came out in heavy huffs, a moan here and there. “You like it dirty, don’t you? Taking me so good out here in this fucking alleyway. Not some fragile grand duchess, huh?” 

He was mumbling, babbling nonsense. And he had laughed at her for being noisy. “You’re one to talk.” 

He nosed his way back up to her mouth, not quite kissing her but mostly just showing he was paying attention. His hips were pistoning fast, but also powerful, precise, like he knew exactly where she needed him out of sheer will. Not a single movement was wasted. Thrusting upwards, stretching her open.

“Didn’t take you for the jealous type,” she breathed. “If I had known I would’ve— tried this weeks ago.” 

He scoffed. “Come on, as if the thought of me with someone else doesn’t drive you up the wall.” 

She thought about it. Someone else getting to have Dmitry this way, being the object of his attentions. And she felt something sour in her gut. “The girls on Theatre Street?”

He met her eyes, lips twitching with a bit of mischief. “Maybe.”

Okay, she really hated that. 

“See!” He was too breathless to laugh, but he was close to it. “Does that make you jealous, Anya?” 

She tugged his hair and he hissed. Damn, they were so similar, down to every wire, it seemed. She thought of something else. “You know you don’t need them, right?” Her ankles locked around him, clinging on, keeping him close. Like no one else would get him this way, if she had a say about it. “You won’t want anyone else that’s not me.” 

He smiled then. Like he knew her game. “I knew it— the moment we met,” he breathed. “You’re it for me.”  

His hips snapped into hers at an ungodly pace now, as wild and desperate as she felt. Her heart was pounding. Dmitry wasn’t speaking anymore, just huffing and moaning and panting. Everything they’d been through— all of the angry bickering, the stolen glances, the lingering touches, the desperate dependency on one another for survival, was crescending to this. To his hands holding her aloft, his brown eyes hooded with something dark and hungry, the skin of his scalp under her fingernails, the stretch of him moving frantically inside her. 

“Look at me,” she managed. She needed to see him come undone. His eyes were shining a little, a vein protruding from his neck, face flushed from his hairline down his chest, lips parted and red. She pressed a loose kiss to them. “Say it.” 

“Fuck—” he groaned. Like she surprised him. “You’re mine.” 

She was his. She knew it for a long time, how much she wanted to belong to someone, in one way or another. “And you’re mine.” 

Dmitry nodded once. Apparently even when incapable of speech he would still take care of her. I’m not loyal to princesses and kings, he had confessed. But I am loyal to you.  

He had already built a staircase for her to reach the end of this, so it wasn’t difficult to finally let go, to let this wave crest and wash over her. When she came all over him he let out the most obscene whimper she had ever heard and within seconds he froze, shaking. All without breaking eye contact. 

Her hands came to the side of his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks. “You okay?” she asked. 

He nodded and audibly swallowed, still breathing hard. Her makeup was smudged all over his face, his hair was going in all different directions, his shirt was wrinkled, his face flushed pink. 

She had to bite her lip and tilt her head back. For some absurd reason she felt an urge to laugh. 

“What?”

“I finally figured out how to get you to stop talking.” 

He smiled tiredly and huffed another breath. Slowly his eyes came back into focus. “Fuck— did I hurt you?” He anxiously brushed a loose hair from her face, searching her eyes with clarity and concern. “I’m— I’m sorry—” 

“Don’t,” Anya shook her head. “Never apologize to me. You’re fine.” Her fingers pushed his bangs out of his eyes. “You’re perfect.” 

They just breathed together for a second, foreheads touching. When he carefully pulled out he exhaled slow and angled her hips with a strange sort of reverence. As he gently set her back down on her feet, he brushed a soft kiss over her mouth, helping her fix her skirt and panties, cleaning her up with the cloth tucked in his breast pocket. The gentleness and care was so different from the way he was moving in her just seconds ago. He had bit a bruise on her neck and left indentations of his hand on the flesh of her thigh but now he was kissing her forehead and wiping her clean with a tenderness she didn’t know he was capable of. And then he pulled his suit jacket off and carefully draped it over her shoulders, almost boyishly shy about it. Confusing and contradicting. 

Dmitry Sudayev would continuously be full of surprises, it seemed. 

“You still gonna go home with that gentleman?” he asked, half joking and half serious. As if, even after all that, she was still on the fence, as if it wasn’t always going to be him from the beginning. 

She tilted her head up at him. “What gentleman?”

He grinned in obvious relief and bent down, mouth hovering over hers. “Good answer,” he whispered just before he kissed her. His hands were gentle around her waist, tugging her closer, his warmth as inviting as ever. “Would you like to go back inside for a dance?” 

She fixed his collar. “How likely is it, do you think, Vlad will find somewhere else to stay tonight?”

“I don’t know. He did say he was looking for Lily, and if that’s anything how I think it’ll be…” he grimaced, like a little boy encountering his parents exchanging a kiss. “Why do you ask?” 

He wasn’t getting it. Her hand slid down his chest as slowly and sensually as she could, finding his hand, intertwining their fingers. “Because in that case, we could have the suite to ourselves…”

His face lit up with understanding. “Oh!” His entire demeanor shifted, no longer weary with exhaustion, standing straighter and bouncing at the balls of his feet. When she started tugging him down the alley towards the street, he was practically skipping. “Got it. So no to the dancing.” 

She let out a giggle. “No dancing.” She held his arm. She was still a little wobbly on her feet, but he was steady next to her, so she knew he wouldn’t let her fall. “But yes to you.” 

His face reddened, endearing and embarrassed to be so obviously complimented, but his eyes danced with something a little akin to the hunger he’d shown before. A promise of more. A promise that he was worth her time. 

Dmitry would always be complicated and contradictory. But now Anya felt, with his hand in hers, she finally understood him a little bit.