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[ sorry for disappearing off the face of the earth, I've been trapped in a project whirlpool, but I miss writing and will try to be more active here. ]

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Your Dating Service

Date with Victor Date Fee: $9.99 Customer Comments: "Smells nice. (Male in 50s)

Tagged by : @hellsdogs (thank you!) Tagging : @richardxoliverxmayhew, @brittunculii, @inionnarequiem

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[ from now on, if i think someone is a bitch I'll curse them by calling them 'succubus' vehemently ]

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Title: Bouquet of roses at the window

Artist: Ferdinand Georg Waldmüller

Date: 1832

Style: Biedermeier

Genre: Flower Painting

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[ i need an emotional support crow ]

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Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Selected Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke; "You See, I Desire a Lot,"

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how’s that house that raised you?

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“For you, my sweet, upon the recommendation of Moscow,” Charles said, holding up a heavy garment bag. Inside, a luxurious brown sable fur coat. The price tag remained intact: ₽1,798,000.00 — Happy Valentine's.

@brittunculii

❝—You know I would have been content with a simple dinner.❞ As a young man born into all of the comforts and luxuries conceivable to one of his standing, Victor has seldom seen a need for receiving fanciful gifts. His gold-kissed fingers stroke the exquisite canvas of the coat, the soft skin of his hand upon the fur completing its aesthetic beauty. The desire to please his beloved wins over his instinct to question such extravagance, and he gazes at the other with smiling eyes. ❝—Still, this is quite fine. Shall I put it on?❞

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Celia Thaxter's Garden, Isles of Shoals, Maine (1890) by Childe Hassam

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At first, being reminded of Charles' frailty, Victor longs to go to him, to kiss his hands and press himself into his embrace. However, as his perceptive gaze consciously follows each minute gesture and movement shared between the two men, seeing the touch which enfolds Charles' hand, it interprets it in the light of his own jealousy.

His eyes remain fixed upon Charles as his words stubbornly cut through any rising doubts, a feeling of loathing blossoming in his chest for the man who has placed him such a position. He draws his gaze away, and instead looks into the fair, handsome face of the man sitting beside him. Arthur is certainly charming in his military uniform, his patience with Victor and their situation only adding to his grace. It would be so easy to want him, to love him. In him, Victor could see, too, a trace of himself, though refined by that singular element which he has often found lacking in himself, and for which his father would have given everything to see in him.

"Charles loves him", he thinks, "And I? I am but a shadow". Though the confirmation of his fears blackens his heart, it serves to make him determined with vengeance. ❝—I want this.❞ He speaks frankly as it is in his nature, his hand moving to settle upon Arthur's thigh nearest to him. ❝—I want you.❞ He explicates his intent, though it's reflected in his warm blue eyes which gleam with yearning beneath the thick veil of his gilded lashes. He may not belong to anyone's heart, yet he has always been desirable in a worldly, carnal fashion; he is conscious of this fact, and artful in wielding it to his advantage.

Arthur hovered by the mini bar, garbed in his RAF officer’s uniform, which appeared to fit his lithe frame better than any tailored suit could. Arthur was always at his most becoming in dress uniform, it had a way of enhancing his imperious posture and instilling in him a pride of countenance that did not prove quite so splendid in civilian clothing. Other than a few bruises and scrapes acquired through some hairy dogfights he’d encountered in his spitfire above London these past days, he was pristine and dashing. 

“Brandy it is,” his tone dripped with charm as he opened a bottle of hermitage and poured three helpings into three curvaceous glasses of hand cut crystal. He approached Charles first, who occupied an imposing armchair by the enclosed fireplace, a gilded walking cane by his side. Arthur handed him the amber libation in silence, his steady hand seeming to linger on Charles’ own trembling one in an attentive gesture of support.

He then joined Victor on the couch, pacing their drinks down on the polished table before them. Arthur leaned in, pressing his fingertips to the small of Victor's back, close enough that his breath tickled the nape of the young man's neck as he spoke. "Are you sure you wish to go ahead with this?" he said. ”If you're having second thoughts then I am fine to simply share a drink with you both; this may well be my last happy night in London,” alluding that it may well be his last night full stop.

“Victor and I have already discussed this at length,” Charles chimed in, watching the boy intently with his ruinously dark eyes. He raised a brow expectantly; his own way of encouraging his aide to show a little enthusiasm. Arthur was terribly good at reading a room, and Victor's pensive demeanour was sending all the wrong signals.

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❛What shall we drink?❜ — Arthur

@brittunculii BOOK STARTERS VOL.11     ANNA KARENINA

❝—Anything you like.❞ Comes his abstracted response, his lips quivering against the graceful bends of his knuckles as he contemplates his position. Of his own feelings he is certain; to agree to such an action is a gesture he could never have conceived in himself, if not out of love for Charles.

It is Charles' motives which trouble him; the history which he and Arthur share has always been visible to Victor, and presently he wonders to whose benefit such an agreement has really been made. He wouldn't deny his own attraction to Arthur, though it could not surpass his devoted feelings for Charles. Yet there is something so base, so loathsome in this agreement, that makes him wonder whether it is meant for his destruction— to serve as a defining moment in regard to his character.

Despite such notions, here he remains. Having sensed his own coldness, he catches himself, and finally turns his gaze towards the other man as he makes another, warmer attempt at a response. ❝—I suppose I'll have some brandy.❞

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❝His father always talked to him—so he felt—as though he were addressing some boy of his own imagination, one of those boys that exist in books, utterly unlike himself. And he always tried with his father to act like the story-book boy.❞

—Anna Karenina

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[ to describe vic's hair: he's got thick, silky golden curls that are long enough to grab a fistful of from behind. ]

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Broughton Grange Garden