#nightspires

She doesn’t answer. Not at first, hugging herself more tightly, sighing a little when he holds her closer. He gives her time, knows better than to push her by now. She will either snap at him or retract further back into her mind, and neither of those options are good.

Outside the window, a woman is hanging her laundry on a rope between the building, the white sheets waving in the wind. A man loudly sells fruits and vegetables in a shop around the corner, and a dog barks after a laughing child. Such a sharp difference with the streets of Russia, with people walking fast and minding their own business, head in their shoulders every time a soldier passes by.

“Do you think I made the right choice?” Anya asks at last, her voice so small he wouldn’t hear it but for how close they are.

And, yes, here it is at last. He had been dreading this moment ever since she found him on the Pont Alexandre III, every since she kissed him and took his hand. How could she not regret her choice, when he’s but a lowlife criminal with no job, no future, nothing to offer? How could she agree to run away with him, when she could have chosen the lavishing life of a duchess, the fancy hotels and expensive operas and the time spent with her Grandmama? He’s been fearing this moment for a week now, but still the weight in his stomach, the tight hold around his heart, hurt more than he expected.

“It is not for me to decide,” he replies, his voice stiff, his words careful.

She tenses at his words, or tone, or both. Which, he realises, is exactly the reaction he expected of her. Especially with the way she turns around in his embrace -- now looser -- and stares at him, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. Yes, let her be mad at him for it. It is so much easier that way, more familiar. Let her have her go at him, instead of that soft, broken act she has going on.

“Dima…” she starts, way too gentle for his liking. Her eyes are big, the compassion in them verging on the edge of pity, and that is what gets to him, ultimately. He doesn’t need her pity; he’s not her charity case, never has been, and the bitter taste on his mouth is enough to keep him going.

“That’s fine,” he replies in a voice that makes it obvious it is everything but. “I was waiting for it to happen.”

He lets go of her, ignores the hurt flashing in her eyes, before he turns around. Their room is so big and luxurious it has its own living room space to the side, and he walks toward it, stops a few feet away from the couch. This is all too much, the money and the expensive life and the everything. All too much, and he feels like his body isn’t fitting him anymore, not comfortable in his own skin. Like he’s been playing pretend for too long, and the second shoe finally decided to drop. Painfully.

She will break your heart, Vlad had warned him once, and Dmitry had been too naive to listen. How he wished he had, now.

“What do you mean?” Anya demands, in this ‘I don’t like to be contradicted’ spoiled princess voice of hers. Which, all things considered, might be the worse tone to use in such a situation, because everything in Dmitry screams for him to rebel against this voice. And he does.

“Don’t think me more stupid than I am, Nastya!” The nickname cracking in the air like a whip.

“Do not call me that!” She finally stands up, walking toward him with fury in her steps. No, not toward him, he realises. Toward the coffee table right next to him, so she can step on it and look down at him, hands on her hips. Her eyes are hard, her jaw set.

Dimitry had missed this, in some sick and twisted way. He’d missed how easily he can antagonise her, how fast it is for her to get upset. He’d missed this particular fire in her eyes, like she could strangle him this very minute and yell in frustration while she’s at it. There’s something to be said about looking death in the eye and living to tell the tale.

“Isn’t it your name?” he asks with a sneer. “Or would you like me to call you Your Highness, instead?”

“I would like you to stop being an idiot.”

“Why?” he challenges. Always challenges her, in everything she does, since the very beginning. “So you can let me down more gently? So I can make it easy for you?”

Her chest puffs, her cheeks turning crimson, and for a moment Dmitry wonders if she will slap him. It’s a miracle she doesn’t, maybe. “And why,” she replies, her voice colder than a Russian winter, “would I do that?”

The sarcastic chuckle falls out of his lips before Dmitry can even think of swallowing it down. One hand running through his hair, he turns his back to her, refusing to look in her eyes any longer. Refusing to see a new wave of pity while he lays it all out for her, throws his insecurities and fears at her. “Why wouldn’t you? You could live as a queen in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, have all the gentlemen swooning over you while you’re having tea with your Grandmama and have the perfect life any orphan dreams of. Get a pick of the best dresses, best museums and shows and fine dining. Be with the woman who loves you more than anything in the world. So tell me why, exactly, you’re following a lowlife thief all over Europe, if you regret your parisian life so much.”

“Because I love you, you big oaf!”

He stills.

Hand in his hair and breath in his throat, he stills.

Slowly, painfully, he turns around to face her again. She remains standing on the coffee table, hands on her hips and anger in her eyes as she keeps glaring down at him. Dmitry blinks at her, once, twice, the confusion written all over his face.

She sighs, and throws her arms up in the air. “Oh don’t act so surprise. It’s not like you didn’t know.”

For the first time in his life, Dmitry is speechless. Maybe if the situation were different, he would ponder on how uncomfortable that is but, as of right now, he can focus on little more than the way his heart is thundering against his ribcage. Royal mess, she had called herself once. Now more than ever, Dmitry understand the feeling.

Silence lingers just long enough for Anya to falter. “You didn’t know.”

He takes a hesitant step toward her, then another, until he’s standing right in front of her. She’s barely taller than he is, standing on this coffee table, but just enough for him to tilt his head up if he wants to meet her eyes. Just the perfect height for her to run her hands through his hair and lean into his personal space until their breaths mingle and he can see nothing but the grey of her eyes.

“Say that again,” he asks her, almost ashamed of the vulnerability he can hear in his own voice. She’s always been his weakness, from the moment they met. She will be his downfall too, someday.

“Dima… Of course I love you.”

She presses her forehead against his, and Dmitry closes his eyes. He forces himself to take a deep breath, if only to keep the tears at bay -- they are prickling behind his eyelids, but he refuses to shed them, and it turns into a shuddering sigh. It doesn’t help that he has to swallow around the knot in his throat, too.

“Princesses don’t fall in love with con men,” he says, and doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince.

“But orphans fall in love with each other all the time.”

One breath, one beat, before his lips crash against hers. Her gasp is muffled by his mouth as he grabs her hair, wraps one arm around her waist, and pulls her against him. She is still warm from the blanket she had put around her shoulders, soft and delicate in his arms. A sigh escapes her as she deepens the kiss, and all Dmitry thinks is she loves you, she loves you, she loves you.

He was a gone man long before he knew her real identity. Somewhere between Germany and France, after long hours of travelling that left them all sore and grumpy and starving, he’d looked at her and the initial bitterness was gone. And then there had been the opera, and the dress he had picked for her. Lily wanted something pink and frilly, but he knew Anya. He knew she would like the deep blue of a Russian night, the softness of the fabric around her legs. He knew her, and the realisation that he was losing her was too painful to cope.

But here she is now, loving him back and putting her hands on his shoulders to jump in his embrace. He laughs when her legs come to circle his hips, the sound amused and broken all at once when he remembers she wears nothing but her thin nightgown, the fabric of it bundled at her waist now.

“Take me back to bed,” she asks. Demands.

Although he’s always been one to say no to her -- a little too easily, perhaps -- this is one thing he can’t deny her. Not when her body melts against his, not when she dropping hot, searing kisses against his nose and cheek, not when his heart is so full it could burst. So he walks the short distance separating them to the bed, and unceremoniously drops her on the mattress. She bounces, and laughs, and opens her legs when he comes to lie on top her her.

Her hair is like a golden halo around her face, shining in the late morning sun, and Dmitry finds himself grinning like a fool at the glorious sight. She smiles too, and brushes a thumb against his cheek, where the stupid dimple is. He’s never had set feelings about this feature of his, but Anya seems to love it and so does he now.

He kisses her again, more purpose and determination in the gesture this time. Her cold fingers reach the hem of his undershirt, tugging at it and making him hiss when they brush against his stomach. Still he leans back just long enough for Anya to pull the piece of clothing above his head, then kisses her again. Her hands settle on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin until they leave half-crescent marks. His are feverish, willing to touch and caress every inch of her body. He pulls on her legs until they cage his hips, grabs her waist, brushes against her hair, explores her sides. Always eager to explore, always afraid to let go.

“Dima,” she moans when his lips close on the pulsing point on her neck, her voice begging and broken. It stirs something new in him, has his hips stuttering against her until she gasps loudly.

When he leans back on his forearms, it’s to look at her in the eyes. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips reddened by kisses, but it is the softness in her gaze that gets to him. That and the way she caresses his cheek, so gentle, so caring.

“I never thought you would choose me. Not even in my wildest dreams,” he admits in a whisper, as if afraid saying it louder would make him even more vulnerable than he already feels. “You would stay with her and…”

“Dima,” she says again, and pulls on his hair, makes him hiss with pain. “I really don’t want to talk about Nana right now.”

Her other hand travels down his back, settles even lower, and Dmitry finds that he very much doesn’t want to have that kind of conversation right now, either. So instead he kisses her again, kisses the smile away from her lips until he leaves her breathless and panting. Then his mouth travels down, sucking at her jaw and neck, kissing and nibbling her collarbone. He will never get tired of marking her with bruises, of the rush of adrenaline when his eyes find the purple shade of her skin. Anya isn’t an animal to be tamed, will never belong to anyone, but there is something to be said about claiming her body as his. This part of her nobody, ever, will see but him. This part of her only for him to enjoy.

The nightgown soon becomes a pile of fabric on the floor, the flush on her face blossoming to her neck and chest. She arches her back, as if offering her body to him, and Dmitry isn’t one to deny such a gift. He grabs her hips and kisses her breasts, her stomach, her hip. She wriggles under his touch, curses him in a sigh. It makes him smirk, how impatient she can get.

So he takes his time. Grabs her leg and drops a kiss on her knee, laughs at her huff of frustration. He is slow in his ministrations, kissing and caressing her tight, ignoring her centre to do the same with the second leg. By the time he reaches her hip once more, the foul language is tumbling down her mouth, and she grabs his head once more, pulls him where she needs him the most.

“So demanding,” he comments with a roll of his eyes.

She is about to shoot back something, refusing to give him the last word, but then he’s licking his way up between her folds and her sarcasm turns into a loud moan. So he does it again, and again. He knows what she likes by now -- the three first days of their little escapade spent behind close doors until he knew her body as well as he knows his own, until he could unravel her with only one touch, one kiss. Dmitry doesn’t want to be smug about it, but. Yes, he is.

Her hand tightens its hold in his hair, keeping him in place as much as she guides him, while the other grabs the sheet for support. He adds one finger, then a second, and ignores the tightness in his trousers even as his hips rub against the mattress in rhythm with his tongue and fingers. She is begging and demanding and cursing, legs shaking against his shoulders, body quivering beneath him, until her words stop making sense, until only his name is on her tongue, until she unravels against his mouth.

Her head falls back against the pillow with one last sigh, her eyelids heavy from pleasure. A sight to behold, as he crawls up her body and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He lies on his side next to her, one hand on her waist. Bliss and content surge through his veins at how peaceful her features are, even more so when she opens one eye and offers him a dazzling smile. She may be a brat, and infuriating half of the time, but he wouldn’t trade her temper for anything in the world if it means having her next to him for the rest of his days.

(She’s turned him into a soppy mess, now…)

“I love you,” she sighs as she moves to snuggle against him.

“I shall never tire of hearing you say that,” he replies with his nose against her temple.

She laughs, a small giggle of a sound. “Look at you with your posh talking.”

“Someone’s rubbing on me,” he says with a frown, but the smile is obvious in his voice.

Another laugh escapes her as she moves closer to him still, her leg moving up until her thigh is pressed to his erection. When she kisses him, it’s with a tiny smirk, and only then does he understand the wordless pun. Vixen.

She pushes on his shoulders until he’s lying on his back, sits on his hips, and Dmitry forgets all will to laugh. His tongue darts out to lick his lips are his eyes travel up and down her bare body -- the hair tumbling around her shoulders, the creamy expense of her stomach, her bouncing breasts. He’s so busy admiring her he barely notices how she pulling the trousers down his hips and legs, barely notices anything at all until her hips move against his and a broken groan escapes his lips.

She will break your heart, Vlad had warned. He hadn’t said anything about how she would ruin him for life, too. Nothing can ever top that, not that Dmitry wants anything else. Those Petersburg girls are nothing but a memory long gone, nothing but smoke when Anya lines herself against him and steals a moan from him as she guides him inside her, inch by inch.

He loses track of anything and everything after that, only aware of her body around and above him, of his hands on her hips and her breath against his mouth, of her bruising kisses and wordless moans. Nothing but Anya, Anya, Anya, nothing but her and her body and her love, until he comes inside her with a groan and a silent prayer to the universe.

Dmitry doesn’t know how long it takes for him to start breathing properly against but, when he does, Anya is still lying on top of him. Her legs are caging his hips and her arms are folded on his chest, her chin resting on top of them, and there is no doubt she is the most beautiful woman in the world.

“I love you,” he says with such an ease it would have scared him only a month ago.

She smiles. “It’s the bliss talking.”

“No. I love you. I’ve loved you since I was ten. I’ll always love you.”

Her laugh is church bells to his ears, Kazan Cathedral on a cold afternoon. She moves until she’s flush against his side, one leg above his and one arm around his chest. Dmitry wonders how ridiculous it would be to spend the day naked in bed. Again.

“You’re so mawkish after sex.”

He frowns at her, just a little. “I feel like there is an insult hidden there somewhere in your big word.”

She doesn’t reply, but her smirk and how she kisses his nose speak volume. Ah. She can have this one. Dmitry is too content to care about her insults right now, pulling her closer and kissing the side of her face. She sighs, and he closes his eyes, fingers combing her hair. Silence settles comfortably between them and, were it not for his knowledge of her breathing patterns, he would believe her asleep again. As a matter of fact, he knows her too well, knows how deep in thoughts she is once more.

“Nobody ever asked you to choose,” he comments. Then, before she even has time to open her mouth, “She asked you to choose between life as a Duchess and a commoner. That’s what you chose, but… You didn’t have to choose between her and me. I think -- I would like to think we’re both your family now.”

She puts her chin in her hand, leaning above him, a frown on her brows. “You really are more clever than you look,” she quips, having Dmitry roll his eyes, but she seems to actually be thinking about it. How it hadn’t occurred to Anya before, he will never know, but he is glad that it is a step in the right direction. He couldn’t bear to witness her transformation into a miserable person simply because nobody ever told her that she was allowed to have the best of both worlds. “Would you mind? Going back to Paris?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but a moment of doubt and confusion has him frown. His heart does something strange and new in his chest at the realisation that his opinion actually matters. That someone will take his wishes into consideration. That what he wants is important, for the first time in his life.

Perhaps it should frighten him, how easy the answer comes to him after that. “I don’t care where we go, as long as we’re together. Rome, Berlin, Paris… It’s all the same to me. And if I have to live alongside aristocrats who look down at me all my life, then so be it.”

He wouldn’t mind going back to Vlad, truth be told. The man has been like a second father to him for years now, after all. He could even find a honest job, whatever that means, and save for a nice apartment in the capital. Perhaps even save for a pretty ring and… He’s getting ahead of himself.

“Tell you what,” he goes on, knuckles brushing against her cheek. “Let’s go to Rome, enjoy the sights. Write to her in the meanwhile, and then we’ll go back. How’s that for a plan?”

“It’s barely a plan,” she quips. “More like an idea.”

“How’s that for an idea, infuriating woman?”

She grins, god helps him. “Yes. It does sound lovely.”

“Paris it is, then.”

Paris it’ll always be, or so it seems.