#dmitry x anya | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

izloveshorses · 12 days ago

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'tis the damn season

10k, modern au, smut 🤫, good old fashioned running into your hot ex bf at your family's christmas party when you already feel weird about coming home, you know?? since it's so long, i recommend reading on ao3. but you're welcome to read the whole thing under the cut!

“More hot cocoa?”

Anya shook her head. “I think I’m too warm.”

The house was stifling and warm now with the fireplace going and this whole crowd crammed into the living room, and Anya, for once in her life, found herself a little too hot for another warm beverage.

Vlad lifted a brow at her, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a flask. “You sure?”

She had to stifle a laugh. “In that case…” she let him tip a shot into her mug before refilling. Coming home would always be strange and uncomfortable, but this man, who was more like a loveable uncle than an old family friend at this point, was always a delight to visit with. And now that she was in the latter half of her twenties she could always count on Vlad to supply her with whatever was in his flask. “How was Buenos Aires?”

“Oh, lovely and sunny as ever,” Vlad said happily. “Lily loved it. Though, Livadia is still her favorite.” Since they got married, they’d gone on at least one extravagant trip a year, and Anya could barely keep up with their itinerary. “How are you getting on? Is Paris as wonderful as I remember it?”

Anya felt her jaw tighten, just slightly. But she managed a smile. “Lovely and sunny as ever.”

“Good!” he gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze, unaware of the lie. He was about to say something else, but she was saved by the door squeaking open, the sound of stomping boots, the howl of the wind, a gust of hellos and welcomes. Vlad shot to his feet from the couch, nearly spilling his boozy hot cocoa. “Well, it’s good to see you, my boy! How was the drive?”

A laugh. “Slippery.”

The sound of his voice from the foyer made her heart leap to her throat. She knew he was going to be here. It wasn’t a surprise. But she felt her pulse in her jumping under neck all the same.

Dmitry was still carefully toeing his wet boots off of his feet when Anya made her way to say hello. He didn’t see her at first. Vlad was talking his ear off, other neighbors were trying to reintroduce themselves to him, Olga’s children were hugging his calves, and he was still crouched over and trying not to get the floor wet. At first she could convince herself nothing had changed at all.

But then he rose to his full height, and— no, he was not the same whatsoever. Somehow even taller. Still too handsome, with his dimpled cheeks and sharp jawline and soft brown hair and kind, warm eyes. But in the years since she had last seen him he had lost that youthful roundness of his face, chiseling his cheekbones even more, the boyish flush gone.

But his smile, when their eyes met and he lifted just one side of his mouth, like he couldn’t believe his luck, was like something from a time capsule, and suddenly she was seventeen years old and stupid all over again.

“Hey,” he finally said to her, his rich voice breaking through the others with ease, like a knife through butter.

She tried for another smile in return. “Hey.”

It appeared that was as far as they would get. People wove between them and bombarded him with greetings but those honey warm eyes never left hers. Anya opened her mouth, finally thinking of something normal to ask, when someone else came barging in the narrow entryway.

“Thank god you’re here,” Maria gasped, almost theatrically out of breath. “Please come into the kitchen and fix it. Tatya is convinced the mayo for the deviled eggs is fine, but there’s just something not right and I need someone with good taste to make her come to her senses.”

She was tugging his arm and he about lost his balance. “All right, all right, I’m happy to help.”

He and Anya shared another look before he was gone.

Dmitry Sudayev. One of the many reasons she could never come home, not really. But also probably the only reason she still did.

An arm came around Anya’s shoulders. “Help me refill the punch,” Olga asked in a way that was very much implying this task had nothing to do with the punch. Anya had no choice but to walk in step with her oldest sister.

She helped carry the dishes of citrus slices and pitcher to the drink table. “Is it okay that he’s here?” Olga asked in a low voice while she stirred the punch bowl. “Do you want me to shoo him out?”

Anya bit her lip. “It’s fine, Olya.” Her sister lifted her eyes to her in unforgiving disbelief. But Anya, upon even more reflection, believed she was being honest. “Really. That was all a long time ago.”

Olga pursed her lips. “Three years is still a long time to be with someone, Nastya.”

“I know, but— we were so young.” Anya waved her hand, trying to dismiss it all. As if he still wasn’t one of the most influential people in her life, whether he was in it or not. “I haven’t seen him in— in years.” She had lost count of the time spent away. But when she sat down and did the math, she hadn’t been back home in nearly a decade. “It will be good to catch up with him.”

Olga studied her, searching for the catch, the hesitancy. She had always been able to see right through each and every one of them. Sometimes it was comforting, knowing how fiercely protective her family was of her, but other times, like right now, it reminded her too much of Mamma when she was picking a fight. “You could come home more often, you know.”

Anya walked right into that one, didn’t she. “No,” she shook her head, “I really can’t.”

Olga smiled sadly. “Okay. If you’re sure. About— him, I mean.”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

A blur of squealing children crashed at their feet, and Olga was whisked away, leaving Anya to her own devices. The moment was over. Not alone, though, not in this house, not with this crowd. She didn’t quite recognize some of the faces. Others she knew, but couldn’t place their names and she prayed they wouldn’t come talk to her. Maybe her little corner by the punch bowl was safe for now. Speakers blared classic Christmas carols, the fire crackled, wind howled against the frosted windows, someone hollered a laugh at some ridiculous joke, her nieces were squealing and running underfoot. She caught the eye of her father from across the room. He gave her a wink before returning to his conversation.

This weekend wasn’t all bad. She loved her nieces and nephew with everything in her, and it had been good to catch up with her sisters. Alexei was due to arrive tomorrow. Last night she and Maria had decided to bake cookies for some reason, nearly in tears laughing at something stupid with their fingers caked in dough, like they were giggling little girls again.

But. It was this. These parties, this lifestyle, that was slowly sucking the life out of her.

Anya wasn’t sure what this made her, but she couldn’t help the resentment growing inside of her, for some reason. That her family was too good and wonderful to leave without feeling guilt tainting her newfound independence.

“This looks good.”

She woke from her dark thoughts to find Dmitry standing there, thumbing a plastic chinet cup, warm eyes on her. “It’s not too bad.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. He helped himself to a scoop of punch and he leaned against the wall next to her, his arm not quite brushing hers. Was he always this tall? There was no way. He had at least a full foot on her. He had always been muscular, but now his shoulders seemed to have broadened even more in her absence, filling out his cable knit sweater easily. The collar of his button up underneath the wool was crooked and poking out, and her fingers twitched with the urge to fix it.

Instead she asked, “Are the deviled eggs saved?”

He cracked a smile, a sliver of white teeth. “It was a close call, but yes, they indeed will be edible.”

“Thank god.”

He was still smiling when he tilted his cup back for a sip. “How long has it been? Five years?”

Anya wiped her hand on her jeans. It wasn’t like they parted on bad terms— things just kind of fizzled out after she left, which would have happened with any relationship, strong or not. But she felt strangely nervous to be around him again all the same. He still smelled like the crisp snow outside, but with a little clove, a little cinnamon. She had to stop herself from outright sniffing him like a freak. “Eight.”

“Damn. Time flies, I guess.” He dropped a brow. “But… wouldn’t I have seen you when you came home for the holidays?”

She shook her head. “Almost every year the family has been out of town for Christmas.”

Sometimes they visited her in Paris. Sometimes they ventured elsewhere. Those trips helped, if she was honest. She could come and go on her own terms, travel separately, slip away to do something touristy just to have a moment to herself. And none of those places had any memories rotting their walls.

Dmitry nodded. “That’s right.”

There was a pause, nothing but Sinatra and the ambient chatter filling the space between them. She fished for another topic. “I hear you got an apartment.”

“Yep. Right on the town square.”

She smiled. “Moving on up in the world, huh.”

He laughed and ducked his head. Against his cheek his eyelashes were thick, dark, long. Always beautiful. “It’s not Paris, but I do have my own washer and dryer unit.”

“You made it!”

“Living the dream.”

They shared smiles, but Anya felt that sadness creeping up her stomach, making her look down at her cup again. “I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch.”

“Don’t be.” He shrugged. “You actually made it out. Like— like we talked about.”

Like they talked about. Whispering plans of escape from this dead end town in a parked car, or in the middle of the night with his arms around her and a laptop playing a movie they had long stopped watching, or in a booth at the diner they always went to after school because it had the best fries, their feet touching under the table. Fantasizing loading up his car and driving west as far as they could go, or booking a flight to Paris with nothing but backpacks on their shoulders and cash in their pockets. Longing for a grander life than the dull monotony that was dealt to them. To see just how big the world could be, how big they could be.

She did make it out. But what was the cost?

Leaving him behind, her heart whispered. But she ignored the thought, because her heart was acting like a stupid seventeen year old girl again and nothing productive came from that.

She was about to respond when a hysterical cry came from the hallway.

“What a disaster!”

Anya and Dmitry exchanged a microscopic, knowing look, before Anya mustered up some energy to leave her corner of safety and investigate.

Mamma was weeping, three daughters flanking her protectively, petting her and offering gentle and logical words of comfort. “It will be okay, Mamma,” one of them was saying, “People won’t even notice,” said another.

“Of course they’ll notice,” their mother shooed them away. “I feel a headache coming on. The party is ruined.”

“What’s the matter?” Anya asked.

Olga answered, “We are out of ice.”

“Ice?” Anya should’ve known. There were no such things as real disasters in this house. “Is there none in the ice maker in the freezer?”

“We are all out.”

Maria gave Anya a tired look. “And everyone is parked in the driveway, so we can’t get the car out of the garage without alerting everyone. And we’re about to be snowed in, anyway.”

“We could just go outside…” Anya started, trying to lighten the mood. “Chip off some icicles from the roof and we’ll be all set.”

No one laughed. It wasn’t even that funny, anyway. “We can’t have a party without ice,” Mamma went on, dabbing at her eyes theatrically. “This is so embarrassing. It’s been such a stressful week— I’m afraid this is setting me over the edge.”

“We need ice?” Dmitry appeared, as if by magic, his voice once again alerting Anya, like some kind of beacon. Always here to fix things with the gentlest solutions. “I was the last one here, I can run out and grab some.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that— not in this weather.”

“It’s really no trouble, I put chains on my tires already, and—”

“Oh, would you?” Her mother patted his cheek, suddenly relieved. “We can always count on you to be our best errand boy, Dmitry. Thank you.”

Anya frowned in appalled shock. But before she could scold her mother for belittling him so easily Dmitry only smiled with good humor and told her, “Any time.”

Anya felt him brush past her on his way to the foyer. She followed her family into the kitchen. There was more talk about the party, how well or not well it was going, was the punch bowl refilled? Yes. Okay. What about the charcuterie selection? No, let’s get the stuff out of the fridge— what do you mean we’re out of the top shelf aged Romano blend? More weeping. Anya sighed and made her way to the door.

Dmitry was still putting on his layers, thankfully, when she started stuffing her feet into her boots. She could feel him halting, watching her in confusion.

“I’m coming with you,” she explained. Where was her scarf? “Mamma— we need more cheese.”

“Ah,” he said, sounding like that explained absolutely nothing. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for you to just tell me to pick some up while I’m out?”

“No, because I know which one she wants, and if they don’t have it I know what her second choice would be, and if that choice fails I know her third, and that would be too complicated to explain.”

When she looked up at him he nodded. “Ah.” And then there was that stupid smile that she had never been able to resist, not when she was seventeen, nor now, when she was twenty-seven, either, apparently. “Bundle up, Romanov.”

Dmitry’s car was still the same old Volvo he drove ten years ago. There was a single dent in the passenger door, a new air freshener hanging from the rear view, a tear in the upholstery. But it was running well, he took good care of it. He took care of what was his.

Aside from the Christmas tunes quietly playing on the stereo they were quiet as they made their way to the grocery. Anya had watched him brush the snow off the windows, losing the battle against the precipitation falling down now. The windshield was still foggy when he pulled out of the driveway. It wasn’t a long drive, but it was dark and the snowfall was thick, and he was driving slow, in case there were any slick spots. She couldn’t help but study his profile. That familiar bump in his once-broken nose, thick eyebrows, doll lips, dimpled cheeks. Both his hands were wrapped securely around the steering wheel but, in spite of the less than ideal driving conditions, he seemed more relaxed out here without the gaggle of party guests to contend with. She supposed they still had that in common.

He declared, rather sudden, “I’m fully convinced your mother still hates me.”

Anya snorted. His eyes were on the road but he was smiling, joking with her, doing his best to keep things easy. This was the Dmitry she was familiar with— comfortable in his space, soft edges, a little sleep deprived. So she decided to joke with him too. “I think she thinks you’re the evil boy who took my virginity.”

He coughed, surprised. “But I— didn’t!”

“You didn’t.”

He didn’t. Three years was a long time to date someone, yes, but they were so young…

There was that burning twist of embarrassment again, on his behalf. “I’m sorry she called you that. Back there.”

“Don’t be. I run errands for her all the time.”

“You… hang out with my family?”

“No, I run errands, if they need something.” Dmitry shrugged. “I don’t know, with Alexei off in med school, and everyone else moved out and settled, I just think… I don’t know, it must be lonely. And it’s not like she knows better.”

She shifted in her seat, looking at him square, trying to read him. “You seem so different.”

In the dark, his eyebrows rose. “Am I?”

“Well— like… you’re… mostly the same,” she said, tilting her head. “But a little different.”

“Different how?”

“You’re… taller, for one.”

He laughed. “Taller? Have you considered that you just stopped growing in fifth grade?”

She rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”

“Is that the only difference you see?”

She pushed her mouth to the side. “You dress better now, too.”

His lips pulled, showing his teeth with his grin. “You mean disgusting old hoodies and sweats weren’t all the rage fifteen years ago?”

“It’s a compliment.”

“A backhanded one.”

“A real one. God.” She shook her head, facing the windshield again. “But I don’t know. Maybe different isn’t the right word. You just… seem really happy to me.”

He shot a quick glance at her. “You know… I might be.”

She watched, waited. He wet his lips while he steered them left at the intersection. “I don’t know. It’s— it’s not the life I expected, I guess, but… it’s not too bad. I like my job and my coworkers. I like where I live. I can’t… really ask for much else.”

She felt that twist in her gut again, a little pinch. It wasn’t envy, exactly, but it had the same effect. “Where do you work, again?”

“Nothing fancy. I just fix computers at some corporate office downtown.”

“What do you mean? That’s so fancy!” She pushed his shoulder and he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

With some more gentle probing, he told her a little more, bit by bit, of his life here. He slowly chipped away at his degree one class at a time when he could afford it, worked odd jobs waiting tables and even bartended for a time, lived with Vlad until he had enough saved for the little apartment above the post office on the town square.

Maybe it was selfish, but she allowed herself a moment to consider this, what it would’ve been like if she had stayed. Watching Dmitry grow less moody and instead channel his feelings into helpful and selfless tasks, driving through the snow to get ice for the holiday party every year, living above a post office, Dmitry’s eyes and hands always available to look at. And some small part of her longed for that life, the life she missed, almost as much as she had once longed to escape. The alluring appeal of what could have been.

Maybe she would be happy, too.

But staying here… it had nearly eaten her alive. The itch— the burn— to go, to get out, was too intense. She didn’t think she would’ve survived another year here. So when she got into her dream college, she had packed her car and didn’t look back. Didn’t think about how the one person who really, really understood her couldn’t follow yet. Didn’t think about how that distance ruined them.

They parked in the nearly empty lot, crossing coats over their chests to keep the warmth from getting lost in the biting chill. It was the kind of cold that reached down to your bones, freezing you from the inside out.

Anya expected that from him, honestly. To be just as cold as this wind. It was what she deserved.

But Dmitry was all warmth and easy smiles, letting her walk ahead to the dairy section. Maybe he really had changed. Maybe this… maybe this was good, then. That he had grown so much. Or maybe he was being too forgiving.

“You seem different to me, too,” he said, watching her search for the goddamn right cheese.

She lost focus, eyes drifting to him. “Me?”

“Yeah. You’re…” he wet his bottom lip, waving his hand, searching for the right word. “Quiet.”

Quiet. Huh. She looked back at the shelf of artisan cheese. “I guess coming home does that to me,” she finally said.

“I know,” he said softly, and something about the tone of his voice made her meet his eyes again. He knew. He knew how hard it was, coming home from college, being bombarded with questions why she couldn’t just be content with her lot in life like everyone else. Why she couldn’t just settle and marry a rich man in accounting and have a bunch of babies. Dmitry had always been her one escape, her one thing in life she could call hers, not the family’s. Maybe it wasn’t exactly healthy, but. They had found relief in only one another.

And here they were. Hiding from her family, yet again, escaping in the smallest ways.

His warm eyes swam through hers. “How’s Paris?”

She sighed. “Paris is… is really good.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. It’s… honestly? It’s the fucking best.” She finally found the Romano blend she was looking for, snatching it as she talked. “I get to see all these really cool places all the time and go to museums and try good food and meet really awesome people and— and it’s beyond anything I could’ve dreamed it would be.”

“Yeah?” They walked side by side to the front of the store. “I’ll bet you’ve got some good stories.”

“I do. It’s just…” she bit her lip, watching as his smile slowly fell into something more serious. “I feel a little out of my depth.”

“Really?” He pulled his chin back in surprise. “I never thought that was possible for you.”

He said it like he meant it, which made her confession all the more difficult. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“‘Course.”

“I don’t… really know what I’m doing.”

He smiled, sad, and bumped his shoulder with hers. “Welcome to the club.”

And for some reason, that gentle gesture made something inside her chest loosen, a valve opening. So many people had offered her advice, both solicited and unsolicited, and so far, his four little words made her feel better than anything anyone else had said.

Like if Dmitry thought she was all right, then maybe she could start thinking that, too.

God, she missed him.

They paid for the ice and the cheese and made their way back to the car. The cold didn’t feel as lonely and bitter as it did before, now she welcomed it. Compared to the stifling heat of her house the wind was refreshing, expanding in her lungs, crisp in her nose. Like she could breathe again.

Snow crunched under tires while Dmitry slowly inched his car out of the parking lot. The town was buried under a hearty layer of white but Anya still recognized the street. The shops, the pharmacy, the gas station, all where she had spent her youth. And then there were new buildings in the place of the old, too shiny and sleek and colorless for anyone who lived here. Dmitry quietly pointed out the chain restaurant that just popped up at this intersection a few months ago.

She had left this place because it felt like nothing about it would ever change. But now, seeing how some of it had changed in her absence, she found herself wishing it had stayed the same.

“We could turn here,” Dmitry started slowly as they approached the intersection of her subdivision, “or—”

“Why wouldn’t we? That’s my street.”

“Or…” he went on, “we could just drive around…”

Oh. He was offering her an out. Like he used to do. Giving her the opportunity to escape, just a little longer. She wet her lips. When her arm brushed against his in the middle he didn’t pull away. Neither did she. “I think they can wait on the ice a little longer.”

He shot her a grin. “Just one more loop around the block won’t hurt.”

No, it wouldn’t. A few extra minutes alone with Dmitry never hurt anyone.

The party came and went, and was about as fun and stressful as Anya knew it would be. Everyone filed out around midnight. Vlad and Lily crashed in the guest room, and somehow convinced Dmitry to stay the night as well, who took the couch.

For some reason Anya could feel his presence from all the way upstairs in her bedroom.

Anya was still wide awake, still in her sweater and jeans, too restless to get settled. Too much on her mind to read. She stood from her desk chair and decided something warm and soothing would help her fall asleep. The house was silent as she crept down the hall and down the stairs, assuming everyone else was long asleep, save for the wind whistling outside. After several hours of noise and chatter and songs that all sounded the same, the silence was a luxury.

But when she rounded the corner there was a lamp illuminating the living room. Dmitry was reclining on the couch with a book in his hand, one arm propped under his head. They locked eyes.

“Hey.”

They got stuck on this greeting for the second time that night. Then Anya thought she should probably explain why she was sneaking into the kitchen. “I can’t sleep, so I’m making some tea.”

“I can’t either,” he answered, waving his book.

He kicked off his throw blanket and sat up. He was still in his clothes from tonight, but the sight of him stretching, bleary eyed and sleepy, was almost too intimate for her to handle, so she had to glance away.

“Want me to make you something?” he asked suddenly.

She raised an eyebrow. “A drink?”

“Yeah. Like— like we used to do.”

He said it shyly, almost, like he was realizing how stupid the suggestion sounded once he spoke it out loud. She nodded. “Something with cinnamon.”

“Cinnamon. Got it.” He shot her a smile while they filed into the kitchen. “Booze?”

“Sure.”

The kitchen was in a state after the party— clean, yes, but with the assistance of people who no longer lived or had never lived in this home many of the dishes were placed in the wrong cabinets. But Dmitry was quiet, careful not to slam drawers shut, silently finding what he needed. A saucepan. Cinnamon sticks. What little was left in the bottle of whiskey from tonight. A pint of Tatiana’s oat milk from the fridge. A box of tea bags. Apple cider packets.

Dmitry really had always been beautiful. In some ways he knew it— his perfect hair, his boyish dimples— but in other, quieter ways, he didn’t. How somber he could get. How soft he looked when he was tired. How his smile lit up his entire face, an entire room. Anya watched, transfixed by his hands. Always so sure of himself. Always intentional. Comfortable in his space. She envied him a little.

“What were you reading?” She asked instead of letting herself think too much. He hadn’t been much of a reader back then, admittedly, until she convinced him to read a few Terry Pratchett novels with her one summer. And then he started having a paperback folded in his back pocket everywhere he went.

“Oh,” he shrugged, as if embarrassed she noticed he still kept that habit. Leftover from what they once were to each other. “Vonnegut.”

“Again?”

He sighed. “Look— he’s a good writer, okay?”

“I’m not judging you by any means,” she smiled. He poured his concoction from the saucepan that had been simmering for a few quiet minutes into two mugs and leaned against the counter next to her. It was still steaming when he put one into her hands. A few years ago, or in another life, she would’ve hopped up on the counter, kicking her legs girlishly, but her feet stayed planted on the hardwood floor. “I’m sorry for interrupting.”

“Don’t be. I can’t focus, anyway. And besides,” he lifted his mug to hers, “this is more delicious than Kurt Vonnegut.”

“How could anything be more delicious than Kurt Vonnegut?”

He rolled his eyes, but took his sip, clearly waiting for her to try it. And she did and— holy shit, this was a masterpiece. He used to take her tea and doctor it up for her for fun, adding a few extra spices or experimenting with ways to froth the milk, but this was miles ahead of the silly ideas they would come up with. The warmth from the spices, the kick of the cinnamon, the smooth creaminess of the milk, and that dash of apple…

Before she could compliment him, he said, into his mug, “And, well, you know how I can never really say no to you.”

He said it lightly, like he was teasing. But Anya felt her stomach clench all the same. Her stupid stupid, stupid seventeen year old girl heart.

Anya set her mug down on the counter between them. “It’s always scared me a little,” she heard herself confessing quietly, before she thought better of it. “How much you’re willing to give me.”

Dmitry’s eyes were molten, warm and soft, malleable, giving too much away. “Me too.” He straightened, facing his torso towards hers. “But maybe there’s…”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. For one fraction of a second her eyes flickered, watching the Cupid’s bow of his upper lip, and back up again. Her fingers touched his, still warm from the tea. “Maybe.”

So that was how Anya found herself wedged between her childhood bedroom door and the solid body of her high school boyfriend, hips and mouths locked together, like they were hormonal teenagers all over again.

Coming home would always be complicated. But this? The way she felt about him, everything about Dmitry himself, how good his mouth felt melded to hers, the way he could make her feel seen and safe and adventurous all at once, was somehow always the simplest truth in the world. And she was starting to think that would never change.

His hand came up around the nape of her neck, tongue swiping the inside of her upper lip, and— yeah. This. All of this. It was so easy.

She still didn’t know where they stood, really, and she knew this probably wasn’t a good idea. But they had always had chemistry this way, with their bodies, taking no time to get reacquainted. They didn’t even really have to talk for him to know what she wanted. And this was more fun and easy to think about than… everything else going on.

Just for the weekend, she thought. Just for the weekend they could pretend. That she was his.

His hand slid up under her sweater and he had her gasping when he squeezed her breast. “Oh my god—”

“Shhh,” he brushed a thumb over her lips. “Don’t want to wake the whole house, do we?”

She shook her head, catching her breath now that his mouth wasn’t on hers, trying to steady it. Her hands were zealously roaming his chest, his stomach, his neck, as if trying to convince her skin this wasn’t a dream. His smell of clove and pine was overwhelming now. If his collar was crooked before it was a mess now, complete with his hair mused and cheeks a splotchy pink, the way they were always flushed when he was younger. She smiled a little. “This takes me back.”

He grinned. “Me too.” He looked around, as if noticing their surroundings the first time. “This room has… not changed at all, I see.” No. It hadn’t. Not her boyband posters on her door, the purple lampshades, the pink shag rug in the shape of a heart, the books on her shelves, postcards pinned on the wall. Another time capsule.

“Haven’t been home to change it.”

“Ah, right.”

Instead of talking about that some more, she kissed him again, continuing where they left off, his hand still cupping her cheek. He tasted like the tea they shared— all cinnamon and spice. He had always been weirdly good at kissing, even when they were teenagers, but now his skills seemed to have sharpened, using his tongue a little more intentionally rather than as a curious experiment. Her leg lifted, looping around his hip, and he caught her thigh, his other hand still cupping at her bra. Even though they were rocking together merely over their clothes she still felt a zing of want zip right through her at the feel of him. All hard and needy and wanting just as much as her.

He yanked himself away again, his head lifting out of her reach. “Shit— wait— I don’t have a condom.”

She rolled her eyes, pushing him away from her. “Ye of little faith.” He lifted a surprised eyebrow. “In my purse, dummy.”

“Oh.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “So you’re just… ready to go anywhere then, huh.”

“Better to be prepared and embarrassed than take the risk.”

His smile was small, knowing. If he was anyone else, she would almost call it mocking, but not with him. Never him. No, he knew her too well, even now. He was, dare she call it, fond of her for being so practical.

Their lips met again in the middle. He sighed hard against her cheek, smile dropping while she deepened the kisses, slow and soft. She had her hand on his chest, advancing forwards while he stumbled backwards. When she shoved him back and he landed on the bed, the mattress squeaked noisily, and Dmitry winced. “Well, this won’t work,” he whispered.

She was standing between his knees, her hands on his shoulders and his on her hips. She bit her lip, glancing over at the rug...

“You mean,” he started, deadpan, “you want me to fuck you on the floor.”

“No, I want to fuck you on the floor.”

His eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “No way,” he said, but the flush of his cheeks meant his protests were insincere. “You deserve better than an old shag rug from 2008, Anya.”

She huffed. “Fine, you can let yourself out then.”

“No no no.” When she started to pull away his fingers came around her belt loops in her jeans and he tugged her even closer. “Just kidding. The shag rug is a fantasy of mine, actually.”

That made her laugh, she had to cover her mouth. He pulled her wrist away and kissed it, then kissed her lips, smiling against her, still holding her by the belt loops of her jeans. And then his hands were lifting the hem of her sweater, so she raised her arms over her head and he peeled it off of her completely. His eyes stayed on hers but his hands, warm and soft, found her sides, holding her ribs. He stood again and he let her lift his sweater off of him. Let her unbutton his shirt, one button at a time.

He had always been strong. But he had only grown more sculpted, more muscular, more solid, with age. Her hands skimmed over the strong mounds of his chest and down his solid abdomen. Smooth skin, endless, warm, alive. His flush went from his cheeks down his neck, over his chest, creeping all the way down his stomach.

“My eyes are up here, Romanov.”

She felt her face warm and she smiled up at him. “Are you getting shy on me?”

His lips brushed over hers when he asked, “Do you want me to be?”

She played with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I want you to be you.”

“That’s what I thought,” he whispered before his mouth closed over her top lip. His hands slid up her back and when she felt the unclasping of her bra she shivered a little. That too was tossed away. And his arms were tight around her, chest to chest, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.

They had never quite gotten to this point, back then. Sure, they made out, they touched each other, but they always had at least most of their clothes on and stopped before anything could really happen. But now…

“God, if eighteen-year-old me could see myself right now…”

Dmitry was lowering himself on the ground to lean against the bedpost, kissing her stomach, guiding her—still by the belt loops— to sit on his lap, her knees bracketing his hips, their lungs touching. She arched her back into him, and he happily let his hands slide up her ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. “Worth the wait?”

“You have…” his mouth came down to the side of her neck, warm palms on her bare breasts, “no fucking idea.”

Her head tilted back at his ministrations, trying to stifle her sighs while his hands kneaded at her. He was firm, confident, but also gentle. Soft. She bit her lip. “We never exactly made it this far before, huh?”

He lifted his head, their eyes meeting, his hands halting. “We don’t have to go further, if—”

“Are you kidding?” Her hands came up to the side of his face. “This is the most interesting thing to happen since I got home.”

The corner of his mouth curled. “That’s a pretty, uh, low bar…”

“You know what I mean.” She brushed his cheeks with her thumbs, then tangled her fingers in his hair. “Please, just— keep touching me, Dima.”

Now he was fully smiling. “Okay.”

And he did touch her. But not with his hands.

His arms came around her lower back, pulling their stomachs flush together, while she had her shoulders and head tilted back for him, and his mouth came down, dragging over her throat, her chest, like he was savoring the very flavor of her skin. And then his tongue was licking at her nipple and she had to close her eyes. His teeth nipped at the soft skin of the inside of her breast, making her hiss.

“Hey, no hickies.”

He practically growled. “Logically, I know that, but… if i’m being honest…” he was still sucking kisses down the center line of her chest, “part of me really doesn’t give a shit.”

She smirked. “This part?” she asked, grinding down hard and pointedly on him. He groaned.

“Sure, yeah, whatever. Sue me.”

She tugged his hair so he would look at her. “You’re gonna need a really good lawyer, Sudayev.”

He laughed. “How about…” he lifted her at her hips, shifting them both until she was on her back, “I do some community service.”

Anya allowed a smile, bit her lip. “The court might agree with that.”

“Jury rests?”

“Court adjourned!”

Dmitry started tugging her jeans down, struggling with the fabric, impatient. “God, I— I really fucking missed you.”

She missed him too, more than she realized. Not just this— his warm and solid body, his handsome face, his ability to make her stop breathing— but all of him. His laugh. The way he could pull a giggle out of her on her worst day. The way he was the only soul who could spot every one of her fake smiles. The way they could dream together, talk together, sit in silence together.

He was shoving one of her pillows between her hips and the floor, and grabbing another throw blanket for good measure. The sweetness, the consideration behind his gesture, broke her heart a little bit.

“There’s no one else like you, Dima.”

Dark eyes met hers. Soft. So soft. “Is that a good thing?”

She nodded. More than he knew.

“Hmm.” He hesitated just a moment more, then his eyes dropped between her legs, and she felt herself burning from the inside out. “Do you need help staying quiet?”

She grinned, for some reason. His confidence was bordering on arrogance. “I think I can handle it.”

“You sure?” He pressed a single, wet hot kiss onto the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. “Because I really, really don’t want your family to know what we’re up to. So it’s okay if you—”

“It’s fine, Dmitry, I’ll manage. Just—”

She gasped when his tongue parted her folds in one long swipe. Fuck. She hadn’t expected him to feel this good. Her hips squirmed under him when his mouth engulfed her, but his hands quickly pinned her in place, so as not to interrupt his work.

After a minute of this he lifted his head and a single eyebrow at her, knowing smirk on his lips. “All good?”

God, he was so smug. She nodded. “Fine enough,” she said, trying to feign nonchalance, but it was hard with how heavy she was breathing, how much she needed his mouth on her again, so much she was burning.

He laughed silently, like he knew. He fucking knew. “Just checking.”

When he resumed, she had to bite on a knuckle to keep from making any more noises, breathing hard through her nose. Fuck.

When she had been with other guys, this part was… never all that memorable. Just something to get ready for the main event. So she had half expected Dmitry to treat it the same way, because what reason did she have to believe otherwise? But… she was eating those words now. It wasn’t like he was even doing anything particularly spectacular. But maybe it was how he was doing it. Intentional, making her wait for it, generous. Not trying to rush her through it like others had, but rather taking his time, enjoying it. In a way that was so playfully and irrevocably him.

And before she knew it, that pressure in her lower stomach was already mounting, so high already she wasn’t even prepared for it. The only warning she managed was snagging the hair at the top of his head. Because if she spoke it aloud, it would come out in a loud, pathetic moan, or a shout. And they couldn’t have that. Not tonight.

His eyes darted up to hers. A shiver raced up her spine. He stayed right where he was, continuing his ministrations, but faster and faster with each cycle, somehow understanding exactly what she needed before she could even think to voice it herself. A tightness coiled within her and she had to cling hard onto the fibers of the rug.

“Breathe,” he whispered against her. And she let out an exhale she didn’t know she was holding.

And that was it. Gravity pulled her over the edge, and she was left gasping silently, her back arching off the floor. She had to shut her eyes, but Dmitry was right there with her, his presence impossible to ignore, even for a second.

“So good,” he was whispering, over and over again, kissing his way back up her body. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

Her body relaxed completely, breathing heavily and melting into the floor, eyes sleepy, but she still found the side of his face, pulling him close enough to kiss. He grinned against her. He was so warm, so solid, so sturdy above her. One of her hands slipped into his hair, and when she wove her fingers through the strands he exhaled heavily. Content.

“Before we do anything else,” he started, “you should probably know, while you were gone, I was sort of seeing—”

“Don’t,” she stopped him with a finger to his lips, “I don’t even care.” And then she was fumbling with the button of his jeans. “As long as I don’t have to share you this weekend, I don’t give a shit who you’ve been sleeping with.”

He smiled a little. “You never have to share me.”

She didn’t want to know, didn’t need to think about that right now. She didn’t think he needed to know she only ever thought of him when she was with other men, either. Give and take.

Taking off his pants took longer than necessary because she kept kissing him, and his hand was cupping her face, so they were moving a little uncoordinated, a little unpracticed, laughing softly into mouths. And then he was finally stepping out of his boxers and they were both bare, miles of warm skin on skin, patient and unrushed as ever. She felt like she was baring her very soul to him.

He handed her her purse and she dug through until she found the condom wrapper. Dmitry was arranging the blanket around him, so she “wouldn’t get rug burn,” he explained, and the gesture made affection well up in her so suddenly she could almost cry. She missed him, she missed him, she missed him.

“This feels like a dream,” Dmitry rasped, gasping a little while she rolled the condom on him before straddling his thighs. He was in the middle of the floor, propping himself up with his hands behind him. “I never thought— I never thought this would happen. With you.”

Anya was holding his shoulders and neck, taking her time. She pushed his bangs out of his eyes. It was dark in the room so she couldn’t make out every detail of him, but she’d be damned if she didn’t try while she had the chance. “I had a feeling this would happen someday.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “I think that’s why it’s taken me so long to come home.”

His eyes shone, searching, before his mouth collided with her own. His hands found her hips. She couldn’t take it anymore. She needed him inside her. Without breaking their kiss she moved until she could feel him at her entrance, then she slowly sunk around him. His mouth parted in a silent gasp, breathing hard when she was fully seated on him, while they both took each other in. This was real. This was happening.

When she lifted her hips just a fraction, testing the give, he let out this little moan that made her spine tingle. “Anya— Anya— you feel so much better than— than I ever could’ve—”

Her hand flew up to cover his mouth in panic. She froze, smirking a little. “Do you need help being quiet, Dmitry?”

“No,” he huffed, annoyed and amused at the same time. “You’re still such a brat.”

She grinned. “That’s not very nice to say.”

He sighed, extra dramatic and theatrical, and lamented, “This is also gonna fuck up my back.”

“Your old man back? You’re not even thirty.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m two years younger than you.”

He shrugged. “It’s true.”

“I can’t believe how much you’re complaining when you’re literally about to get laid,” she hissed. He grinned. “I can get up, if you’re so bothered…”

“No,” he repeated, hands tightening on her hips, quite possibly already leaving marks. And he lifted half of his mouth. “I like it. Keep being mean to me.”

She laughed a little, biting her lip. She rolled her hips once more and Dmitry tilted his head back, eyes fluttering shut, like he was praying, or something. And then she was moving for real, trying to feel him everywhere at once. The stretch of him was unbelievable. Her nipples brushed against his warm chest, their stomachs sliding together, and she— she couldn’t get enough of him—

“Slow,” he inhaled the word, “slow, slow, slow.”

Anya didn’t realize how fast she was moving. She let her hips slow to a gentle roll, making love to him the way he deserved, and he was looking at her like she hung the moon, like she was a miracle.

She had been with other men before, of course. They had just moved for a while, eyes shut, until they were done, and then rolled over like nothing happened and that was that. But there was something about Dmitry. Maybe it was his commitment to eye contact, or the way he used his hands, or the ten years of suspense building up to this moment. Or it was just the ache in her for him that had never quite gone away.

“Dima,” she murmured, trying her best to keep her voice steady and quiet. “I really missed you.”

His mouth twitched, nearly smiling, breath fanning her face. “Can’t believe this is what— what we’ve been missing out on—”

So he felt it too, then. How this was better than it was supposed to be. “Fuck— I know.” She couldn’t get close enough to him. Her legs shifted so her ankles were locked around his back, needing to be as close to him as possible, moving back and forth, her arms around his shoulders. His hips were eagerly rocking to meet hers. His hands slowly slid up from her waist to cup her breasts, squeezing and clinging on like a tether, making her feel a little wild and need to move faster.

There wasn’t much movement, not in such an intimate position like this, but it was still beyond anything Anya had ever felt before. With him she could try anything, do anything. Kissing necks and biting earlobes turned to swallowing moans that were too loud for this kind of night turned to simply touching foreheads and just breathing together, unable to properly kiss because they were panting so hard. His arms came around her lower back and her nails dug hard into his shoulders. When she inhaled she could feel him breathing with her, could feel his heart against her own.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he kept whispering. Over, and over, and over again. “I’m so close.”

She was too. She didn’t realize it at first, how this crept up on her. But suddenly there it was and she was about at the point where she couldn’t avoid it anymore. This ending. But he was looking at her like that, so desperate and loving. She cupped the side of his face. “I’m right there with you.”

He kissed her, hard, and she let go, moving without abandon, chasing her own high. And they both reached this crest together, mouths muffling their gasps and moans, hearts drumming against one another. Connected in every possible point of contact.

He exhaled against her, eyes swimming through hers, lips swollen and parted. He was so beautiful. Her hand came up to fold into the hair at the back of his neck. And Dmitry gave her that stupid, crooked smile she fell in love with all those years ago. And suddenly this whole thing was very funny.

Sure, everything was different. But what she had with Dmitry… he would always be able to make her laugh at the most inopportune times.

He slowly flattened himself on his back, chest still heaving, and he rubbed his face. “Jesus.”

She was still smiling, and was about to move to get up off of him but his hands stopped her by holding her thighs.

“No, just— stay, for a minute.” His eyes met hers. “Please.”

Dmitry had told her he could never really say no to her. But little did he know, Anya had that same problem with him sometimes.

So she got comfortable, laying on his chest and tucking herself under his chin. They were still on the floor, shivering a little, and Anya needed to pee, but neither were in a hurry. They already lost so much time.

Dmitry was weaving his fingers in her hair, massaging her scalp. Her eyelids felt so heavy. Her fingers traced little hearts on his chest. And then there was that feeling again, the road not taken, the path that was this that could’ve been her life. The one collateral lost in her escape.

“Does sex make you quiet, too?” he asked.

“No, it’s just— I’m just thinking.”

“You’re thinking really hard…” he went on. She could feel him smiling, feel his need for her to stay present. She needed to do her best to do that, at least. For him. “I can, like, almost hear your brain.”

She took a breath. “I didn’t want— I hated leaving you,” she whispered. He stilled. So she sat up to look at him, to gauge his reaction, even though she knew she was killing the mood where it stood. He looked so perfect with his swollen lips and hair falling into his eyes and his heavy and serious eyelids and lashes. Her chest pinched. “That wasn’t what I intended.”

His expression flickered, just faintly. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“I just— I think I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” he shook his head. “Don’t. You don’t need to.” His thumb stroked her cheek. He chewed his lip, like he was trying to think of the right words to say. So was she. There were just… simply too many things they hadn’t told each other, too many words to cram into this small space between them, into one night, one weekend. But then he smiled, saying simply, “Consider us even.”

Slowly she let herself smile, let herself believe it. “Okay,” she whispered.

“Not that— not that there was a score to settle, or anything.”

She nodded. “I know.”

And she kissed him, soft and slow, and didn’t bother coming up for air.

Only a few hours later, Anya was watching the first signs of sunrise through her window, bundled up in her blankets and a pair of arms in her bed.

It had been disorienting waking up in here this weekend. But now, Dmitry’s arms were grounding, steady and solid, reminding her that last night had indeed not been a beautiful, delusional dream. The dichotomy of things staying the same and changing all at once.

The mattress creaked when she rolled over. There she found Dmitry already awake. The twin bed wasn’t nearly large enough for the two of them, but their bodies were curved together, all warmth and limbs and hair and bedsheet, and Dmitry certainly wasn’t complaining. He smiled softly, nosing her hairline, his arms still enveloping her in his warmth.

“Hey,” he murmured.

“Hey,” Anya whispered back.

“Merry Christmas.”

His smirk was so contagious. “I, like, completely forgot about Christmas.”

“Really? This was once your favorite time of year, from what I remember.”

“It was.” She could feel him breathing against her forehead, his nose squished against her skin, his heartbeat under his collarbone. She didn’t want her foul mood from the weeks before to spoil how unbelievably happy she was right now, but there was still a bit of sadness in her voice. “I dunno. I’ve been feeling a little Grinch-like this year.”

“Well, you know,” he sighed, pretending to be serious, “I consider the Grinch to be an anti-capitalist hero, so—” Anya snorted, wheezing out a laugh before she could cover her mouth. “It’s true!”

“Stop,” she pushed a palm to his face, because she seriously needed to calm down and quit giggling this early in the morning.

“He saw how consumerism was poisoning the holiday and—”

“Stop it.”

Yeah. She missed this. She missed him so much her heart ached.

Dmitry swallowed, watching her, waiting until she recovered, looking almost apologetic. “I should probably sneak out of here before anyone else in this house wakes up.”

“Yeah,” she said. And then she smiled. “Just like old times.”

He grinned, his eyes softening as he looked over her. He pushed a curl over her shoulder. “Almost.”

Almost like old times. He had spent the night in secret before, he had snuck out in the morning before, either through her window or out the front door before dawn, but they had never woken so very naked and satiated back then.

“I know we never exactly did this before,” Anya started, sighing when he started pressing slow, gentle, featherlight kisses on her skin, starting at her shoulder, “but I’m feeling so much deja vu right now.”

Dmitry snorted, his breath tickling her neck. “Christ, I know.” He sighed. “Remember when I snuck out your window and I sprained my ankle?”

She had to bite back a laugh at the memory. “And you lied and said it was from— what did you say? Soccer practice? Did you even play soccer?”

He was laughing silently against her skin, shoulders shaking, “I think the story changed every time I talked about it.”

“Oh my god,” she had to cover part of her face. “We were so stupid.”

“No, I was stupid. You were…” he pulled his head back, eyes meeting hers again. “You were too smart for me. I wasn’t sure if I could ever keep up.”

He said it lightly, but she could hear the self-deprecation lingering there, years of insecurity. She touched the side of his face. Let her thumb brush his cheek, digging into the dimple cutting into his flesh. “Nothing about you had to change,” she said softly. “You’re perfect.”

His lips twitched, then he tilted his face toward her palm, nuzzling her hand. “When do you go back?”

“Monday,” Anya answered.

“Ah.”

The deadline hung in the space between them, stifling the air. There it was. The thing they’ve been avoiding. Reality.

Her hand trailed down his chest, fingers stroking his collar bone, feeling his steady heartbeat. So she would go back to Paris with her whirlwind schedule and her freedom to live how she wanted and her fancy friends to go out with every week. Her friends who, though fun, didn’t know every corner of her soul. Not the way he did. And there she would lay awake and wonder about the boy she left behind across the sea.

Wait for me, she wanted to ask him. It sat on the tip of her tongue. Wait for me while I make my way back to you. I promise it will be worth it.

But she couldn’t ask that of him. And he wasn’t asking her to stay, promising he would make it worth it, if she did. He wouldn’t ask that of her, either.

In the light she could make out the marks she’d dug into him with her nails last night, little red streaks all over his shoulders. Like she was doing everything she could to cling onto him but he would always manage to slip away. No matter how hard she tried.

Dmitry took a breath. “I know you don’t think you fit in with this town anymore,” he rasped, “but I just want you to know, you’ll always fit in with me.”

Something inside her chest clamped down on her heart and squeezed. She took him in, in all his messy glory, with his hair falling into his eyes from all directions and his marked up shoulders and his longing eyes.

For a minute she thought about it— rephrasing what home meant. Home wasn’t this house for a very long time now. Home was no longer her family, as important as they would always be to her.

But maybe now her home could be him, wherever he was. If that was possible.

Not even with him, but just. The thought of him. The feeling of him. Her fondness for him.

Anya nudged his nose with hers and then pressed her lips to his. She planned on just giving him a peck, but he wasn’t having that, tangling his fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck, angling his head and opening his jaw to deepen the kiss, making her sigh against his cheek.

She was just beginning to forget the idea of kicking him out of her room altogether— because he was so warm and they deserved to stay here half the day, consequences be damned— when the sound of a door down the hall squeaking open startled them both apart. Dmitry was frozen above her while they held their breath. Another door closed, the sound of running water. Anya silently counted the steps before the original door opened and shut again. She loosed a breath. It was just Maria. Who would go back to sleep for a few hours more.

“Okay,” he whispered, resigned, “I really don’t want to get caught.”

She smiled. “I guess.” Still, he made no effort to shift out of bed. “It’ll cost you, though.”

“Oh?” He propped his head on his hand. “How about… I go pick up some breakfast for you from the bakery?”

“You’ll have to get donuts for the whole house, though, or everyone will think you’re playing favorites.”

He pressed one more kiss against her mouth and whispered, “Who says I’m not?”

Anya rolled her eyes. He clumsily rolled off the bed, his limbs too long and lanky for such a small space, and slowly started plucking his clothes from the floor. She was able to get a good look at him now with the light filtering through her window. Even though they had been tangled up together in the most intimate way last night, it had been too dark to really study him, so the sight of his muscly back made her face warm.

“What are you doing tonight?” She asked, pulling the blankets up to her chin.

His arms threaded through his button up. “I dunno.”

“I was thinking I could come see this apartment of yours…”

He grinned, ducking his head, as if the thought made him shy. As if he weren’t standing naked in her bedroom. “It’s not much.”

“Let’s see. Do you have four walls?”

He laughed. “I do.”

“Do you have a bathroom?”

“That too.”

“A bed?”

“Mattress and everything.”

She hummed. “Sounds like enough to me.”

He bit his lip, smiling. “I could make you dinner…”

“Dinner? You cook now?”

“Mhmm.” He smirked. “There’s a lot about me that will surprise you, Romanov.”

She laughed. She would love to call him out on his arrogance, but he had indeed proven himself as a surprise last night, so all she could do was shake her head. “Okay, it’s a date, then. Tonight you’ll borrow me, and—”

“Borrow?” He snorted. “What, like you’re just some library book?”

“You know what I mean!”

He laughed once through his nose, continuing to button his pants. Fond. So, so fond. “I suppose you have some ulterior motives for getting me alone again.”

“Perhaps.” She bit her lip. “What about it?”

He shrugged again. “Just looking forward to catching up, is all.”

There was something soft in his tone, something honest. She watched him quietly while he pulled his sweater over his head, leaving his hair all disheveled. “Dima?”

He met her gaze. “Yeah?” he whispered.

“Do you think you could love me again?”

His eyes softened. She herself didn’t quite understand what she was even asking for, what the right words were, what she wanted. But somehow he did. His throat bobbed, eyes swimming through hers. “I never stopped.”

Something inside her came together, like a zipper that had been stuck now gliding closed and secure and warm. Complete.

Okay. She would be okay.

Anya nodded, giving him a soft smile. “See you in a bit.”

He bent down, giving her a slow, chaste, lingering kiss. “See you soon.”

He expertly tiptoed out of the room, knowing all too well which creaky floorboards to avoid, and his trek downstairs was as silent as ever. Anya sunk deeper into the blankets. Just for the weekend. They could pretend.

Later, when her nieces and nephew were excitedly telling her all of what Santa left them, and her family was talking over one another so loudly no one could hardly get a word in, Anya would catch Dmitry’s eye across the way and they would share a quiet, secretive smile, and his toe would graze her leg under the table. The promise of later. The promise of a beginning.

And maybe, she thought, coming home from now on wouldn’t be so bad.

#anastasia broadway #anastasia musical #anastasia #dimya #my writing #fanfiction #anya x dmitry #smutty saturday #listen #i didn't expect this to go over like. 5k #but here we are #for the girls <3

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