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he is deceptively strong. looks like a scholar, fights like a butcher's boy. his hands are elegant but scarred, and they can wield a rapier or a broadsword with the same lethal grace.
his hair is perpetually messy, but it's the kind of mess that looks intentional, like he's just been in a fierce wind or a lover's hands. it's soft, though. surprisingly soft.
he smells like rain on old stone, bergamot, gunpowder, and very good, very expensive tea. the combination is uniquely, intoxicatingly him.
he's a terrible patient but an oddly gentle caregiver. he'll curse and grumble while meticulously cleaning and bandaging your wound, his touch feather-light despite the scowl on his face.
he has a collection of old, beautifully crafted compasses. they all point north, technically. but he swears blind that one of them, the oldest one with the brass casing, points only to what his heart desires most.
his voice can go from crisp, academic precision to a low, rough growl in a heartbeat. the latter usually comes out when he's tired, or angry, or very, very focused on you.
he wears layers. always. waistcoats, cravats, heavy coats. unwrapping arthur kirkland is a slow, deliberate process, and he watches you do it with a look of intense, focused approval.
he has a sweet tooth he tries (and fails) to hide. finds pastries and cakes utterly irresistible. will deny it if confronted, but his lips will be dusted with powdered sugar.
his pride is a tangible thing. it can be infuriating. but when he finally, reluctantly lays it aside for you, the vulnerability in his eyes is more breathtaking than any grand gesture.
he's seen empires rise and fall. he carries the ghosts of history in his green eyes. but when he looks at you, it's with a startling, present intensity, as if you are the only subject that matters.
he fights dirty when he needs to. knows every low blow, every pressure point, every trick in the book. but in a fair fight, his style is all brutal, efficient elegance.
he keeps secrets like other people keep breath. but he'll tell you his truths in the dark, whispered against your skin like prayers, where only you can hear them.
his love is not gentle. it's fierce, possessive, and all-consuming. it feels like being claimed by a storm. and once you're in its eye, there is no calmer, safer place in the world.
he has a recurring dream where he’s back at waterloo, but the smoke never clears and he can’t find wellington. he wakes up with the taste of gunpowder in his mouth and reaches for you just to feel something solid.
he was taught to dance at the french court, centuries ago. he hates admitting it, but he’s exquisite at it. leads with a firm, confident hand. can still do all the old, complicated steps.
his handwriting is a flawless, elegant copperplate. he writes all his important correspondence by hand. the sight of his pen moving across parchment is hypnotic.
he has a thin, faded scar just under his jawline, from a roundhead’s blade during the civil war. he tilts his head back when you kiss his throat, offering it to you like a secret.
he was shot at waterloo. the scar is on his left side, just above his hip. it aches when the weather turns damp. he’ll sometimes press his hand against it absently, lost in thought.
he still, unconsciously, checks the time by the position of the sun. old habits.
he reads latin and ancient greek fluently. sometimes he mutters in it when he’s frustrated, curses that are two thousand years old.
he is violently, profoundly seasick. the irony is not lost on him. he will deny it to his last breath, even as he turns green at the docks. even as an ex-privateer.
he knows how to waltz, but he learned it two centuries after everyone else, and he’s slightly stiff about it. he prefers older dances where he knows he’s the best in the room.
he keeps a pressed flower from every significant battlefield he’s survived. they’re in a small, locked folio. he never looks at them.
he can sleep anywhere, in any conditions. a leftover skill from countless campaigns. he can be dead asleep in a chair and still hear you enter the room.
his first, instinctive reaction to surprise is to reach for a weapon that isn’t there anymore. you see his hand twitch towards his hip, where a sword hilt used to be.
he hates the sound of air raid sirens. a modern sound that does something ancient and cold to his blood.
he remembers the names of every ship lost at trafalgar.
he is, at his core, a profoundly sentimental man. he keeps everything. theatre tickets, a button from a coat you wore, a note you left him in 1923. it’s all in a battered trunk in the attic.
he still sets a place for old friends at christmas. the ones who don’t come around anymore. he doesn’t speak of it.
when he’s truly, deeply upset, he goes very quiet and very still. like a animal that has been wounded and is deciding whether to flee or fight. the silence is more frightening than any outburst.
he loves the rain. will stand in it for hours. says it’s the only thing that truly washes the old centuries clean.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
