anastasia fic: these tornadoes are for you
these tornadoes are for you. anastasia. anya/dimitri. pg13. There are many places they want to go but none are appropriate for Anastasia. There is only Anya here.
“Where do we go now?” Dimitri asks.
Anya has a scarf wrapped neatly around her hair and tied tight underneath her chin. It smells of Grandmama. The train station is bustling and no one stops to look at her. She slips a careful hand into his.
“How about London?”
He smiles at her and it is a criminal’s smile, sharp at the edges, dangerous. She wonders if her own matches his. She hopes it does.
“Whatever you want, Grand Duchess.”
His fingers untie the silk from around her head and she laughs.
They sit in coach and order drinks, vodka for them both.
“You handle your vodka poorly for a Russian,” she sneers, her four glasses lined neatly on the edge of the table.
Dimitri’s cheeks are flushed pink. His face slides back into place after taking his fourth shot. The windows are covered in fog and Anya presses a finger to it, drags the pad of it in swirling curves.
Pooka barks in his lap, his ears flopping.
“We can’t all be royalty, Anya,” he sneers, the corners of his mouth turned up. His foot nudges hers under the table. Anya smiles like she is not a lady. She nudges her knee in between his two legs and enjoys the way the color drains from his face.
“Another round for the Russians!” Dimitri yells.
Anya drums her fingers on the wood and raises an eyebrow.
In London, the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova waits tables at a dingy English pub. Drunk British men pinch her hips and ass and feast their eyes on her breasts but Anya just wnks and pockets their pound notes easily.
She cuts her hair off to her ears and dyes it black and wears shirts that are cut to show cleavage.
“If only Grandmama could see me now,” she whispers, her fingers threading through Dimitri’s hair.
His mouth presses messy kisses across her collarbone and she arches into it, off the sheets, slides her skin across the air to get as close as she possibly can.
Dimitri laughs and bites down. Anya gasps.
It is dark and this is the only time she gets scared anymore, the edges of her vision dotted with green and dancing bears and flying monsters. Her blood runs cold with it, this fear, and Dimitri kisses her with a mouth that burns.
Big Ben chimes in the distance and he is still a criminal. She finds she rather likes that about him.
Her tattered yellow dress sits in the back of their closet, behind boots and pants and shorter skirts.
She leaves it there.
There is no tiara here.
“Where do we go now?” Dimitri asks.
Anya has a scarf wrapped neatly around her hair and tied tight underneath her chin. It smells of Grandmama. The train station is bustling and no one stops to look at her. She slips a careful hand into his.
“How about London?”
He smiles at her and it is a criminal’s smile, sharp at the edges, dangerous. She wonders if her own matches his. She hopes it does.
“Whatever you want, Grand Duchess.”
His fingers untie the silk from around her head and she laughs.
They sit in coach and order drinks, vodka for them both.
“You handle your vodka poorly for a Russian,” she sneers, her four glasses lined neatly on the edge of the table.
Dimitri’s cheeks are flushed pink. His face slides back into place after taking his fourth shot. The windows are covered in fog and Anya presses a finger to it, drags the pad of it in swirling curves.
Pooka barks in his lap, his ears flopping.
“We can’t all be royalty, Anya,” he sneers, the corners of his mouth turned up. His foot nudges hers under the table. Anya smiles like she is not a lady. She nudges her knee in between his two legs and enjoys the way the color drains from his face.
“Another round for the Russians!” Dimitri yells.
Anya drums her fingers on the wood and raises an eyebrow.
In London, the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova waits tables at a dingy English pub. Drunk British men pinch her hips and ass and feast their eyes on her breasts but Anya just wnks and pockets their pound notes easily.
She cuts her hair off to her ears and dyes it black and wears shirts that are cut to show cleavage.
“If only Grandmama could see me now,” she whispers, her fingers threading through Dimitri’s hair.
His mouth presses messy kisses across her collarbone and she arches into it, off the sheets, slides her skin across the air to get as close as she possibly can.
Dimitri laughs and bites down. Anya gasps.
It is dark and this is the only time she gets scared anymore, the edges of her vision dotted with green and dancing bears and flying monsters. Her blood runs cold with it, this fear, and Dimitri kisses her with a mouth that burns.
Big Ben chimes in the distance and he is still a criminal. She finds she rather likes that about him.
Her tattered yellow dress sits in the back of their closet, behind boots and pants and shorter skirts.
She leaves it there.
There is no tiara here.