#'you should get griboyedov instead'

[kittoforos]

3, 4, 8, 9, & 14

3. Favorite female HF — already answered (but another fave is Hildegard von Bingen, Doctor of the Church, Sibyl of the Rhine: the 11th/12th century nun/composer/mystic/strategist/healer)

4. An HF I really dislike — i mean, there are a lot… Richard Wagner. Dick. also, and i would like to note that, until recently, i thought this was exceptionally low hanging fruit: Josef Stalin. not a fucking fan, here.

8. An obscure HF who needs more love — already answered but honestly you can never have too many, so this time i’ll say Stanislav Yegrafovich Petrov (1939—), a.k.a. the Soviet civilian who saved the world by correcting deciding that the five US missiles he saw arcing toward the USSR on his monitors in September 1983 were probably a false alarm. good call, thanks bro

9. Favorite history-based movie — Amadeus. especially the ending. (although honestly tbh to be honest it has haunted me for years that ‘Amadeus’ actually means ‘lover of God’, and not ‘beloved of God’ as the film states)14. Favorite fictional depiction of an HF — Tom Stoppard’s portrayal of literary critic Vissarion Belinsky in his play cycle The Coast of Utopia

[truthofherdreams]

people can surprise you (or not)

also on ao3

His place is everything Anya expected of a bachelor pad -- one-room flat with minimalist furniture and muted colours, with the bed in a corner and the kitchen in the other, a bunch of clothes discarded on a chair. She notices a pile of books next to the bed, and some pictures pinned to the fridge, but it is the frame on the wall that steals her attention. She goes to stand in front of it, tilting her head slightly to the side, as she admires the picture.

“Griboyedov Canal?” she asks.

There is the double sound of beer bottles being opened before Dmitry comes to her side and hands her one. She takes a sip, and smiles at him. “Yes,” he replies simply with a smile of his own. “It’s my favourite view of Petersburg.”

“I don’t remember much of it,” she admits. “I was five the last time I was there.”

“Never went back?”

“No, we…” She trails off, wondering how much to reveal about herself. It is not a part of her past she shares easily, but a fellow Russian might understand. “My father was a politician. Not a well-liked one. He passed a series of laws that were not all that well received and. Well. They said it was a car accident, him and my mother, but. We all know what really happened. My siblings and I were spending the summer with our Nana, and we never went back. Never felt safe going back.”

Dmitry doesn’t reply anything and, when Anya chances a glance his way, he is staring at the frame instead of looking at her. He takes a sip of his beer and swallows hard, before he asks, “You’re one of Romanov’s daughters, aren’t you?”

There is no denying it, really. “Yeah. The youngest.”

He nods, and takes another sip of beer, but says nothing for long minutes. Anya wonders if she blew it -- politic and murder, nothing better to set the mood -- but then Dmitry says, “My father was a journalist. He wanted to show everyone how corrupted the government is and… Well let’s say some people are really good at making other people disappear. My mother waited a full week before she understood what had happened. We ran to Moscow, and then to France. Never looked back.”

“Dmitry…” Her tongue feels like leed in her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

He makes a face, at first, and then sighs. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. At least he died for his convictions and taught me to believe in mine.” He snorts a sad laugh. “And yet here I am.”

“Hey…” Her hand brushes against his forearm, barely more than a caress at first, before her fingers wrap around his wrist. He looks down at her, the turmoil in his eyes leaving place to something gentler. For a moment, Anya forgets this is all a bet between Maria and her, forgets she didn’t even pick him herself, because. Well because she can’t deny this connection they seem to have, can’t deny the pull of her body toward his and how she feels like they understand each other so well.

He looks down at her, and licks his lips, and Anya forgets all about the bet when she rises on her tiptoes to kiss him. He tastes like beer at first, his lips soft and pliant against hers. Her hand still holds his wrist, but his other hand rises to cup her face, before it travels to her neck. He takes a step closer in a sigh, deepening the kiss, and Anya stops thinking.

Her arms snake around his neck as she presses herself against him, her breasts against his chest, a moan on her lips when he replies by pulling her even tighter. His hands are everywhere then -- travelling up and down her sides, into her hair, before one lands on the small of her back. She arches against him and he gets the message, because seconds later he holds her up and drops her on his small kitchen table.

Her legs open to welcome him, his hands grabbing her thighs. He’s close, so very close, and she crosses her ankles at his back as if to prevent him from escaping. As if he would go anywhere.

Dmitry breaks away from the kiss, leaving Anya breathless and panting before he steals a moan from her when his lips find the pulsing point on her neck. That will leave a mark in the morning, probably, but she doesn’t care. Not when her body is on fire, not when her mind is empty but for the echo of his name.

“Dmitry…” she whispers. But then her hands are on his shoulders, pushing him away. “We should -- we should slow down.”

He runs a hand through his hair, blinking down at her. His pupils are blown, his cheek red, and his combed hair is now a perfect disaster. She’s never seen a more enticing sight. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, you…”

He stops, and stares at her. She stares back.

They kiss again.

Slower this time, his hands cupping her cheeks with a gentleness that has nothing to do with the hurry of before. He takes his time, dropping a few open-mouthed kisses on her mouth before his nose rubs against hers and makes her giggle. He smiles against her mouth, too, even more so when she grabs his shirt to pull him close again.

Anya doesn’t know how long they stay there, just kissing, but she can’t say she minds. Not when he does it so perfectly, stroking the fire in her belly with each passing second. She loves it that way, slow and sensual, with his hands warm against her skin and his mouth burning against hers.

Before long, her fingers find their way under his shirt, and she laughs at the way his stomach clenches to the touch. He hisses and nibbles on her lip, which makes her smirk in return. Still, he doesn’t protest when she tugs on the fabric, instead raising his arms to get rid of it. The shirt is thrown on the floor, and her eyes widen at the sight in front of her.

“Нихуя себе!” she mutters, which makes him chuckle.

“Thanks,” he replies, biting down on his bottom lip.

Not that she notices all that much, when her eyes are too busy roaming the expanse of his chest. Well defined muscles stretching under sun-kissed skin -- and god knows how he manages to do that, not like the weather has been kind in Paris lately. A scatter of freckles all over his shoulders and collarbones, dark stars on a beautiful canvas.

Anya’s mouth goes dry even as her hands move to grab his waist and pull him closer. She kisses his collarbone first, a brush of her lips against his warm skin that has him gasp in surprise. Perhaps it is this sound -- soft, unassuming -- that keeps her going, that has her want to kiss each freckle, discover every inch of his body. It should scare her, how much she wants, but Anya can’t find it in herself to care right now. Not when she can’t remember the last time she let herself want as much as she does right now.

Dmitry breaks her exploration of his torso with two fingers under her chin, tilting her head up so he can kiss her again. She eagerly complies, even more so when he whispers “Bed?” against her lips and grabs her thighs. He holds her up, legs around his waist, arms around his neck, and lays her on the mattress, towering above her. In the darkness of his flat, his eyes are black as night; it stirs something within her, pride at being an object of desire.

Her top soon joins his shirt on the floor, followed by her shoes, his trousers, her skirt. He kisses her breast above the cups of her bra, kisses his way down her stomach, teases her until she sighs and moans. Before she knows it, he strips her bare, runs his hands up her legs, down her sides. Before she knows it, a whimper escapes her at the feeling of his fingers against her, rubbing and teasing. He’s a fast learner, adapting to her gasping noises until her back arches, until her legs tremble and his name rolls on her tongue. She spasms and clenches around his fingers, tumbling from the edge when he whispers sweet nothings into her ear -- Russian and French words alike, a language of its own.

She is still panting, eyes closed, mouth half-opened, when he leans to the side and opens a drawer. Sound of wrapping paper being torn opened, before Dmitry settles back between her legs and kisses her cheek. There is a tenderness to it that doesn’t usually come with one-night stands, and it makes her smile. Even more so when she opens her eyes and see the gentle look in his eyes, even more so when he brushes his knuckles against her jaw.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

She snorts a laugh and wraps her arms around his neck, pulls him down for a kiss. “Never been better,” she admits.

He grins into the kiss, and chuckles at her strangled gasp when, in one trust, her enters her. She grabs his arms, the need to just hold on to him too strong, when he starts moving inside her. She’s sensitive from her orgasm, but still she arches her back, still she soon gets into a rhythm with him. He grabs her thigh, pulls it up so that the angle changes, so that he hits a spot deeper inside her, and Anya forgets to think, to breathe.

Her voice is hoarse when she whispers for him to go faster, here, just right here, like that, before it dissolves into nothing as Dmitry lowers his head to kiss her breast. His mouth wraps around her nipple, tongue playing with it, teeth grazing and making her gasp. He moves his attention to the second one after, while she holds onto his hair, his shoulders, his everything. He keeps her grounded, makes her flight with each slap of his hips against hers.

But then, soon, too soon, Dmitry’s body tenses against her, his rhythm stuttering a little. He raises his head to meet her eyes, and she tries not to overthink it, not to ponder too much on their easy connection, what it means, what it is. Not when he crashes his lips against hers, not when his mouth tastes like lust and desperation.

“Anya, I just… I…”

She kisses his cheek, his jaw, his neck. “It’s okay,” she coaxes him. “Dmitry, it’s okay.”

The movement of his hips gets more desperate, fever in his rhythm, before he stills with a groan of her name on his lips. His mouth is back on hers as he comes inside her, his fingers leaving bruises on her leg and waist, his body heavy and warm above her. It’s perfect, in its own way.

Her hand runs through his hair while they both catch their breath -- easier for her than him, because he keeps dropping kisses along her collarbone. Insatiable, or so it seems. How this man is single, she doesn’t understand. A mystery of its own, perhaps.

There is no awkwardness when he finally rolls off her and gets rid of the condom, nor when she asks where the bathroom is and goes to clean herself. She barely recognizes the woman in the mirror -- well-kissed and well-fucked, with red bruises down her neck and breasts, hair a mess and pupils blown. Anya likes this picture of her, happy, satisfied.

She grabs a tank top that seems clean from the basket in the corner, puts it on before going back to the main room. He’s still in bed, his eyes never wavering away from her as she makes her way back to him and to his bed. One arm around her body to pull her flush against his side, lips to her cheek. She smiles.

“So…” he says after a while -- his voice deeper, smooth. “Anya, short for Anna?”

A giggle escapes her. “Nastya, short for Anastasia. But only my family calls me that.” He raises a curious eyebrow, and Anya finds herself blushing for the first time that night. “I was obsessed with Roman Holiday when I was a child. You know, forcing everyone to watch it five times a day until the VHS was unreadable, that kind of thing. I wanted everyone to call me Anya Smith, because I’d decided I was a princess but I wanted to lead a normal life. I even refused to answer when people were using my real name, that’s how ridiculous the whole thing was. I guess the nickname just never went away after that.”

He smiles at her, but it soon turns into a smirk. “You sound like a brat.”

She gasps, and hits his chest, which only makes him laugh more. “Very funny,” she comments, even if she can’t put as much venom into her voice as she’d like. “What about you? Dmitry. Mitya or…”

“Dima,” he finishes for her. “Haven’t been called that in a very long while, though.”

“Shame. It suits you.”

He smiles, and kisses her again. Before soon, she is lying on her stomach by his side, arms folded in front of her -- she doesn’t miss the way his eyes distractingly travel down every so often to the view she’s offering. He plays with her hair, and they talk. About her job, and how she decided she wanted to help children when she was one herself. Too many hours spent in hospitals because of Alexei’s haemophilia, before they managed to get the right dosage for his meds. Too many hours spent in the paediatric ward, looking at sick, dying children. She wanted to help, somehow, and so she convinced her grandmother to create a charity. One she runs now, with much success.

She tells him French comes more easily to her than Russian. That she had to adapt to a new life in Paris at such a young age, sometimes she even wonders what is Russian about her. She doesn’t remember her country, barely has memories of her parents. Only speaks her mother tongue when she’s angry, or taken by surprise, or complaining about things in public with her siblings.

They talk about his childhood in Lyon, and all the crazy teenage nonsense he went through. He tells her about the trouble that would always find him, about messing with the wrong crowd and learning to fight the hard way. He tells her about smoking and hiding it from his mother, drinking too much, until he realised he was wasting his life away. He tells her about moving to Paris for university, struggling with his studies, struggling with finding a job. The hellish years in BuzzClick, writing shit he doesn’t care about not believes in.

They talk, and talk, and talk, until Anya forgets it has only been a few hours of knowing him. That easy connection, it’s like she’s known him all her life, and she owes it to a stupid bet and her sister’s lucky pick. Anya tries not to dwell on it for too long, least guilt comes gnawing at her.

Dmitry’s eyelids grow heavy then, and he snuggles against her arm. Her heart grows three sizes bigger at the sight, which makes it all the more difficult to move away and stand up. His eyes snatch open immediately, hurt dancing in them. “You don’t have to go,” he tells her, small, almost vulnerable, when he sees her grabbing her small purse.

She opens it, waves her phone at him. “I need to text my brother,” she explains, before she goes back to bed. To him. “He’s going to worry if he doesn’t hear from me.”

Dmitry hums a little, and goes back to snuggling the moment she’s next to him again. Anya grins, and kisses the top of his head, before she opens her phone. There are fifteen notifications in the OTMA group chat, which she elects to ignore for now. She neither have the strength nor the will to deal with all three of her sisters right now. Instead, she opens her conversation with Alexei, and type a quick message.

He replies a few seconds later, having her snort a laugh at his use of emojis.

She also has two new messages from Maria, which. Anya hesitates, just for a moment. The heavy reminder as to why, exactly, she is in this bed, it’s like a cold shower, a painful wakeup call. She tries to put things into perspective, just a little. So, okay, she only approached Dmitry because Maria picked him at random, which isn’t exactly the best way to start any kind of relationship, but. But. Whatever happened after that, it was real. It is real. They opened up, and shared their past and, let’s be honest, had the best sex of Anya’s life. Just because it started as a bet, doesn’t mean it can’t turn into something different. Something more.

He wanted her to spend the night, for once. Anya may not have a lot of experience on the subject, but she knows enough not to be stupid about it. Men like Dmitry don’t let women stay the night if it’s just for a one off. They put them in a Uber, and promise to call, and never do. So… So, there. That’s that.

She opens Maria’s texts, with a smile to herself.

Dmitry shifts in his sleep, and Anya switches off her phone, puts in on the floor. Whatever Maria wants to reply to that, it can wait until morning. For now, Anya lies down and closes her eyes, not even fighting a smile when Dmitry all but manhandles her until she is in his arms, pressed against his side. With her head on his chest, she hears the soft beating of his heart against her ear. It lulls her to sleep.