Oh yes, folks. This one was a loooong time coming. Hope you like your fics a little...saucy.
Quick & dirty Russian lesson: kroshka = baby, sweetheart
I do love a Dimitri all raw and in his feelings ;)
Enjoy!
J.F
Malenkaya.
That was the pet name for the czar's youngest daughter Dimitri had heard as a boy, on those rare occasions his kitchen duties took him through the royal living quarters. Malenkaya they called her, though its use wasn't nearly as frequent as shvibzik, the imp, which the oft-harassed servants kept in heavy rotation.
Dimitri would pick up suggestions of her presence - a flash of dark hair disappearing around a corner, a trail of crumbs leading to the study, a squeal of fiendish delight in the distance and its ensuing loud rebuke. It had made him happy somehow, to know someone in the palace felt so uninhibited when he himself felt so hopelessly trapped.
He had been elbow-deep into a tub of dishwater the morning a hand slipped out of the pantry, snatching a big yellow Antonovka apple right out of the barrel he still needed to sort. Dimitri had whipped back the tattered curtain to berate the thief and exposed the Grand Duchess Anastasia instead, her lacy gown inexplicably caked with mud. "Don't tell," she'd whispered, then flashed a toothy grin at him and fled before he could breathe again.
A spellbound Dimitri had made a ritual of sneaking fruit into her room after that, using the servants' door hidden in the wall to gain access. Smirking, he'd watch her frown in bewilderment at the apple she'd always find inside her enormous dollhouse. Until the cook beat him over the missing produce and he'd had to stop, their one-sided exchange had made Dimitri's bleak reality seem survivable. It hadn't mattered that the princess probably didn't remember him, not even when he shoved her through the same secret entrance to save her life.
Dimitri had had her features memorized in the seconds it took for the butt of the soldier's gun to find him. The shape of her mouth, her ears, her jawline. The sprinkle of freckles across her nose. The abject terror in her eyes.
No one in Russia knew her face better than he did.
When the news came that she'd gone missing, Dimitri used to pray she'd escaped to safety somewhere she could be free again. The way she had been in the palace kitchen, in that single luminous moment with him.
Then he grew up. And as the years passed with no word, he believed with a pessimist's certainty she was as dead as the rest of her clan.
Anya had always been an adult-sized double for the last Romanov, more so than any other girl Dimitri had ever seen. He was used to her specialness. Seeing her in clothes actually made for a female shouldn't have been surprising at all.
It shouldn't have, but...
Fucking hell.
He had not been prepared to see her in that dress.
A sunset of shimmering gold had displayed how she'd filled out, her cheeks full and pink and healthy, her sharp angles rounded off into soft, feminine curves. Even her hair had grown fuller and sleeker, trailing down her back to a waist still no wider than the span of Dimitri's hands.
The visual had left him caught painfully between past and present, between her truth and his lies. To his horror, everything about Anya was a flashback, down to the freckles he had never noticed before.
Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova, Breaker of Chains, Princess of Resurrection.
Nastya, shvibzik.
Malenkaya.
Dimitri had turned around on that deck and she had lived again, watching and waiting. For him.
Dumbstruck, he'd stared until his eyes burned, but it was no use. The distinction was gone. He could no longer separate Anya from the Anastasia in his head.
Sentimentality had made him want to run to her. Primal, agonizing desire had made him want to run away.
And Vladimir - damn him - had wanted them to dance.
Dimitri had dreaded the physical contact, half-fearing her an apparition conjured by his memories and evidence he'd lost his mind at last. His knees had almost buckled when she took his hand. It had only helped a little to stare at her shoes during their first waltz, when Anya - unsurprisingly - took the lead.
But Vladimir would have none of that. He had had them switch roles and Dimitri made the fatal mistake of meeting her eyes. They were still flawless imitations of Anastasia's, sure enough, but Anya alone had stared back at him. Trusting him. Believing in him.
Anya was no royal specter. She was flesh and blood wrapped in the fragrance of crushed rose petals. A vibrant, living woman with the purity of her heart scrawled across her face for all to see.
It had been Anya's warm, supple body molding to Dimitri's embrace, letting him guide her around the deck as if he'd actually known what he was doing. Anya's smooth palm against his, her delicate fingers grasping at his shoulder. Anya's pouting mouth just begging to be kissed.
The indigo of the restless ocean had paled beside the gem-like hue of her eyes. The crimson fire of the sun loosening from the heavens had been no match for her radiance. Dimitri had babbled like an idiot, saying something about how nice she looked in the dress, and she had reddened like the flesh of a ripe plum. That was just Anya, too. The Anastasia in his memories was too brazen for blushes.
The longer they danced, the more vital Anya had felt in his arms. As necessary as breathing. Like she was really his, and he hers, and they had always been. And suddenly what Dimitri felt for her had transcended his childish obsession with a princess forever out of reach, imploding his heart like a supernova.
Their feet stopped moving and he'd fallen headfirst into those huge blue eyes, into everything Anya had been and ever could be, closing the distance between them once and for all because it had felt right, like coming home.
Then Pooka had barked somewhere behind him and he'd remembered.
He was going to sell her. Just like a pimp would. To a grieving old woman with nothing left to cling to but her money. That plan was still in motion, and Dimitri had fed Anya so many half-truths and outright falsehoods to that end, even he knew there was no going back.
Anya's lids had lowered, shuttering the brilliant gaze. Her lips had parted. The afterglow of twilight had turned wisps of her hair into tongues of flame. She was perfect, so lovely it broke his heart, and he'd never felt more disgusted with himself in his entire life.
All she wanted was a family. All Dimitri wanted was ten million reasons to forget every bad thing that had ever happened to him, and Anya was the sacrificial lamb on the altar of his greed.
She deserved so much better.
Pulling away from her had felt like being flayed. Even now, as he pretended to sleep while Anya and Vladimir conversed quietly behind him, he wasn't sure how he'd managed to keep from dropping to his knees and begging her forgiveness.
Vladimir let out a groan of pure misery from his spot on the floor next to Anya's bunk. Anya hummed in sympathy and whispered, "Are you alright? Do you need some of these?" Dimitri heard a rattling sound, like a bottle of pills being shaken. Most likely the medicine for motion sickness Vladimir had picked up in sick bay their first night at sea.
"I took several of them before dinner this evening," Vladimir said in a low voice. "I should be dead to the world momentarily." Dimitri had his back to them and could still detect the paternal affection in the older man's tone. Vladimir had clearly fallen for Anya's charms, too.
"Are you sure?" Anya said with a quiet giggle. "You look a little...green." The steady rasping sound in the background told Dimitri that Anya was brushing her hair for the third time that night.
"I am fine," Vladimir said mid-yawn. "Just riddled with envy...look at him." He paused, and Dimitri knew Vladimir had thrown a glare his direction. "He can sleep through anything."
Dimitri suppressed his bitter chuckle just in time. He'd hardly slept at all the four nights they'd been on the ship. Not only had the strain of hiding in plain sight left him too edgy to rest, he'd had to remain vigilant upon the return of Anya's nightmares. It was probably her anxiety over Paris, but these were far worse than the ones she'd had back in the forest. Now she was sleepwalking.
After an exhausting day of feigning seasickness to avoid his companions, Dimitri would re-position himself to watch over her once he was convinced she was asleep. Every night he'd had to wrangle her back into her bunk after shielding her from bruising limbs on the furniture around the room. She'd cling to him each time, unshed tears clumping her lashes, and he'd have to peel her off and practically pin her down until she started snoring again.
Anya never remembered the bad dreams. Dimitri would pretend to be too sick for conversation or eye contact the next day, secretly wishing their French odyssey would be over soon and he'd never have to see her again.
It made him feel like an asshole, but it was a necessary evil. Dimitri couldn't trust himself to so much as look at Anya anymore. Or Vladimir, for that matter; if he let his guard down, his mentor would sniff out the stink of Dimitri's catastrophic misstep as a con. Then Vladimir would understand their ultimate scheme to exploit Anya had been endangered from within the ranks.
Because Dimitri was deeply, madly, desperately, inconsolably in love with her.
The upper bunk creaked as Vladimir climbed into bed. "Sleep well, Your Majesty."
If that medicine continued to work as well as it had the last few days, Vladimir would be knocked out cold in minutes. Dimitri settled in, prepared to stare at the ceiling for the next couple of hours.
"Dimitri."
He jumped with Anya's mouth so close to his ear. She was squatting on the floor near his sleeping pallet, a hand braced on the suitcase acting as his pillow.
The scent of flowers still clinging to her pajamas made him dizzy with longing. Closing his eyes, he roughly cleared his throat to strip the tenderness from his voice. "What."
"I think you should see the doctor on board if you're so sick."
Dimitri gritted his teeth. That wasn't concern in her voice; it was sarcasm. She knew he'd been faking. That was the trouble in dealing with a girl who had beauty and brains in equal measure, he supposed. A man became too distracted by her looks to notice she hadn't missed a thing.
"I'll live," Dimitri said, trying to ward off Anya's perceptiveness by wrapping the scratchy blanket more securely around him. "I just need to get off this ship." Off this ship, off this continent - to be anywhere Anya wasn't.
The question she posed rang with a hope he just couldn't acknowledge."Do you need anything? Water? A stiff drink, or something?"
Dimitri's heart ached, but he directed his response to the water stain on the wall. "I'm fine."
Anya sighed and leaned back on her heels. "Look, can you just...talk to me? We'll be in Paris tomorrow and I'm kind of going crazy here. I mean, I don't understand why you're being so - "
"Go to bed, Anya," Dimitri snapped, wincing inside as he silenced her. "It's too cold down here on the floor, anyway."
After a long, heavy pause, Anya sighed again and it came out like a hiss. "Here's something to help you sleep, then," she said, and pelted the back of Dimitri's head with a handful of pills before she stalked away.
Jaw tight, Dimitri brushed the small white pellets out of his hair. So she was angry.
Good. He could deal with angry.
The boat pitched and rocked in the storm that had blown in that evening. Anya's toiletries slid back and forth atop the dresser to its rhythm. She tossed and turned for a good half hour before finally passing out. Yawning, Dimitri crossed his arms over his chest and counted the nails in the wooden ceiling, waiting for Anya to stir as he knew she would.
The next thing he knew, Pooka was pawing at Dimitri's head, barking like someone had burst into the room to attack them.
Dimitri groaned, trying to shake the heaviness of his unexpected nap. He must have dozed off.
Grabbing the agitated dog, he sat up in the dark with a scowl. Pooka barked and wriggled and nipped at Dimitri's chin with an urgency that was unsettling. "Pooka! Pooka, what?!"
Lightning illuminated the room and when Dimitri glanced at Anya's bed, wondering how she could sleep with all the yapping, his blood ran cold.
It was empty. And this time, the cabin door was open.
Dimitri jumped up, knocking the suitcases forming the perimeter of his bed from his path, hurling his body through the doorway. The ship listed to the starboard side as he exited, slamming him into the railing of the passageway. Dimitri couldn't feel it. Adrenaline pumped through his veins like a narcotic, numbing what was probably a fractured rib, propelling him up the stairs to the only place Anya could have wandered.
He emerged to find the sea attempting to devour the ship. He'd barely left the stairs when a rogue wave knocked him over like a bowling pin, filling his mouth and nose with briny water. Coughing and sputtering, he rolled onto his knees and stared out across the deck. The only light came from a tiny bulb above one of the maintenance doors, not quite enough to light the ground beneath it. Dimitri couldn't see her. He couldn't see anything.
A fear he'd never known sped his heartbeat into a vibration. If Anya had gone overboard, if he'd lost her before he could even - "ANYA! ANYA!"
Only the storm screamed in response, the wind tearing at his soaked clothes, the cold rain like needles in his skin.
Prepared to jump in after her if he had to, Dimitri reached out to feel his way to the light and smacked his hand on what felt like a ladder. The crow's nest. Maybe a miracle would let him see from up there.
He scrambled to the top as fast as the slippery rungs allowed, a clap of thunder booming inside his skull once he climbed into the large wooden basket. Dimitri squinted past the water streaming in rivulets into his eyes. Lightning ripped the sky in two for a fraction of a second, just long enough to make visible the lone figure on the opposite end of the deck. The one standing tall on the railing, a foot dangling over the edge.
Anya. Oh, God. She was going to jump.
Lightning flashed again, highlighting the rope near Dimitri's side. There was no time to think about how stupid he was about to be.
He snatched it up and swung into thin air like a madman, screaming Anya's name, praying he landed near her and didn't break his neck in the process. The rough fibers set his palms on fire as he slid down. His feet hit the deck harder than he anticipated and he cursed when he tweaked his ankle. He somehow managed to keep his balance and before Anya could fall into the roiling ocean, Dimitri hobbled over, seized her by the waist and plucked her off the railing.
She fought him. Still caught in the throes of her nightmare, she resisted Dimitri like he was trying to kill her, kicking and swearing and pounding his back with her tiny fists.
Faint with relief, Dimitri set her down and shook her by the shoulders, hard. "Anya! Anya, WAKE UP!"
Anya opened her eyes with a choked gasp. "Ivan," she screeched. "It's Ivan, he's - "
Dimitri couldn't make out the rest of her babbling when she buried her face in his chest. She was shaking so hard it was rattling him, too, and Dimitri wrapped his arms tightly around her if for no other reason than to hold them both still. He braced his cheek against her wet head. She fit so perfectly in his arms, he couldn't help himself. "Hey, hey...it was just a nightmare, kroshka, it's alright..."
He flinched. The affectionate diminutive had slipped free without his permission. He hoped Anya was still half asleep and hadn't heard.
But her quaking reduced to shivers after a moment and she drew back, her clenched hands knotted into the fabric of his shirt. Lightning flashed again, unveiling the hair that hung in wet strings around her face, the rain and waves having turned it almost black. Her ribbon drooped in a lopsided bow next to her ear. Tears or rain spilled down her cheeks into her open mouth. Her saturated pajamas had turned translucent, and Dimitri could swear he could see the dark outline of her nipples through the fabric.
He held his breath. Now he was the one trembling.
Another pulse of light from within the black clouds showed him all that smoldered in Anya's eyes - the fading panic, the gratitude. The awakening hunger. She stared up at him as if he were everything she could ever need. Or want.
She broke the silence with his name, an open appeal. "Dimoychka..."
Just like that, Dimitri was done fighting the good fight.
Though the bulk of the storm had moved on into the west, its violence remained, suddenly living inside them both, crashing their mouths together so sweetly it was excruciating.
Dimitri grabbed Anya's face with both hands. Anya whimpered against his lips, pressing her body flush against him, and something like an anguished growl ripped from his chest. He realized he needed to feel her like he needed to live. He needed to feel her skin, everywhere, all at once, all over him.
Her hands slid up to his shoulders, latching on to either side of his collar, pulling him even closer. Instinctively, Dimitri pushed her with his body under the eave to the lighted service door nearby to shelter from the persisting rain. Anya's back thudded against the metal surface harder than he'd intended, but she didn't seem to care. When Dimitri's mouth opened to gasp, the tip of her soft tongue slicked out to meet his, and all was utterly lost. He obliged her with a reckless moan, lost in the taste of her, like strawberry nectar, his senses overloading as the endings of every nerve cried Anya's name.
His hands shook as he fumbled with the buttons at the top of her pajama shirt, baring the expanse of smooth, wet skin before the swell of her breasts. He'd started blazing a trail of kisses there but found he couldn't bring himself to abandon the sweetness of her mouth, better in reality than he had ever dared to imagine.
And it just got worse. There was no satisfying the pounding ache. Each fresh sting of Anya's nails digging into his back and every wanton roll of her hips made Dimitri want her to the point of pain, until he was just a vessel of mindless, hideous need and there was nothing, nothing else but her flesh and his flesh and the pulsing heat they created together.
He couldn't stop. His usual finesse with the fairer sex had abandoned him. Anya's sharp teeth nibbled his bottom lip and his caresses became adolescent gropes, his fingers slipping beneath her shirt and grasping her waist like a lifeline, their kisses growing almost sloppy with his increasing desperation. Anya gave as good as she got, matching him pant for pant and grunt for grunt. Dimitri was harder than he thought humanly possible and he knew she could feel it when she whined in frustration, clawing at his shoulders, her leg lifting like she was trying to climb him, allowing his pelvis to settle against hers like it was meant to, right where -
- fuck -
Dimitri filled his hands with palmfuls of her backside and Anya groaned, sending the vibrations all the way down his throat into his soul. Her lips and hands were both killing him and keeping him alive and he kissed her harder, unconsciously trying to convey his feelings without words, willing her to understand him, probably hurting her but unable to pull back. With his forehead braced against hers, their mouths never severing their connection, they shared the same breath for a dazzling instant and Dimitri caught a glimpse of the divine -
Anya detached him with a hard shove.
Dimitri staggered back a step and blinked at her in shock, unable to adjust to the swift change in circumstances. The wind assaulted him along with the awareness of his sodden clothes and he began to shiver from head to toe. It took a moment to fully register her withdrawal, and when he saw the furious disbelief on her face, he understood what he'd done.
She was vulnerable, and he'd taken advantage of her again. Preyed on her. Like he had from the beginning. Being in love was beside the point, as it turned out. It hadn't changed who he'd always been.
He took in a shuddering breath and tried to recover, knowing there could be no backpedaling over the line they'd just crossed. "Anya..."
Shaking her head, Anya whirled and ran off, her bare feet splashing in the puddles.
"Anya, wait! I'm sor - shit!"
Dimitri turned and punched the door with a snarl, not caring if he fractured a few bones. It wasn't as if he didn't deserve it.