not as a pretty, but i was never fond of pretty things. he wanted to say as she clawed into him, dragging him with her to this place they called home. the way she felt against him, the way she took his breath away, stealing it away like some thief in the night. every part of his body felt cooled–while he was fire, she was ice. burning him in a different way that she ever could feel for him. it was like she was encasing his heart as she pulled away. cursing him, wishing that she didn’t feel this way for him. he couldn’t help but wonder why she didn’t just leave. it was easy to leave him after all–she said it so many times.
“fuck me.” he said in a low voice before he flipped them around so he was on top once more, looking down at her and wiping away the straw tear that left those beautiful eyes of hers. he never wanted her to cry. he never wanted her to be in pain again. he wanted her to be happy. he loved her. he loved her more than she could possibly imagine. “tell me what you want, anna. and ill do it. if you want me to leave ill leave. i will never show my face again….but if you want me to stay–ill never leave your side again. if you want me to kiss you, i will leave you breathless. and if you want me to fuck you–ill make your voice raw from screaming my name…you choose.”
She looks at him as she flips them, breath hitching as he wipes away the tear in the corner of her eye. Anna didn’t mean for this to happen, for her to want him as much as she did, for it to hurt and to burn and to ache. She didn’t mean to need him as much. And maybe it’s weakness, maybe it’s stupidity, maybe it’s (love) something else entirely. Maybe it’s because she didn’t realize, didn’t count on her heart beating as fast as it did, didn’t count on wanting and needing as much as she did. Maybe she didn’t count on feeling those things still, thought that the distance between them would have ended it all. It should have ended it all. She should be stronger than this. But it’s him, isn’t it? It’s him.
She has never had a choice in her life. She looks at him, and can feel her throat closing, can feel the air leaving her lungs, can feel her lung packed and tight. Her breath hitches and she just looks at him. There’s anger still, somewhere, but she can’t quite find it, can’t reach it just yet. There’s anger, there’s fuel, there’s always that. She knows that as well as she knows the curves of his body, as well as she knows the curves of her own. She puts her hand on his cheeks, and doesn’t look away. “Dimitri—-” It is but a whisper, a whimper. She’s begging for mercy, begging for him to understand. She won’t say anything else, she refuses to say anything else. She won’t commit to anything, won’t ask him to leave (he can’t leave, not again). She won’t say anything, but she still presses her lips against his, mouth open as she pulls him closer. It’ll have to be a good enough answer for now. “Please—”.