LOADED GOD COMPLEX – COCK IT & PULL IT
Date: January 3rd, year two
Location: The Grand Palace’s northern wing || Viktor’s quarters
Time: 01:45 AM
Availability: @viktorlantsov
Viktor’s skin glistened in the muted light coming from the lamp on his desk as Dmitri kneaded at his flesh, slowly working the tension out of his muscles. He could have done this without breaking a sweat, commanding his body to relax with barely a twist of his fingers, but he enjoyed the proximity of the act far more, using his higher senses merely as a guide, choosing to do this the old fashioned way. It was so much easier to keep him quiet when he touched him, keeping his attention on his body, and he found Viktor far more pleasant company when he didn’t speak.
His hands were beginning to feel the burn of the exercise, his hold strong, a mere breadth short of bruising – there was no need for kid gloves when handling a warrior – but physical discomfort was easily dismissed by a Corporalki, and it didn’t slow him down until he was wholly satisfied with his work. Sex would have been better – sex had been better – but he found a different sort of delight in Viktor’s drowsy grunts, in watching him yield to his influence without the distraction of his own pleasure.
“You’re welcome,” he spoke lightly, indifferently, rolling off of him and sprawling on his back, staring at the ceiling in a self-satisfied daze. Yes, a massage had really been a good decision, he concluded, and he pushed himself up on his elbows to glance around Viktor’s room – a clashing contrast of a Spartan necessities and the lavishness of a prince’s quarters. Dmitri was definitely enjoying the latter, most notable of which was the very bed they languished in.
However, something else drew his attention, something he didn’t remember from previous visits. And despite the vigor of their activities, Dmitri was nothing if not observant. “So –” he began, pushing himself over the edge of the bed and straightening his back. “– they’ve made it official. General. Sir,” he smirked over his shoulder at Viktor’s prone form, his tone anything but deferential. “Soon enough someone will blunder – calling you the wrong thing in the wrong place the way things are going.” One designation would have been so much simpler. If nothing else, the otkazat’sya should have learned that from the Darkling. The more indisputable one’s power, the less they’d have to bother with stringing up their titles like pearls on a necklace.
He hadn’t given much thought to the heartrender having any semi-respectable use outside of a rough tumble and an outlet for things he both didn’t care to do and wouldn’t dare do to his fiancée and other softer, more pliable things, for the longest time, and if the witch himself hadn’t taken the initiative and shown him himself that he did, indeed, have other talents, the prince very well may never have known (and it wouldn’t have pained him, this not knowing, because most nights, after he’s had his fill, he sorely wishes he’d never known him nor engaged with him at all). And what a pity it would’ve been, for on nights like these, he needed them far more than he was willing to acknowledge or admit.
But Dmitri didn’t need his confession, did he? It was there in the way the Lantsov man moved, his taut muscles all but melting beneath the older man’s touch, and the way he groaned, with a sort of pleasure distantly related to the sort they were both more accustomed to, but most of all, it was in the way he made no move to force him off, to shove his filthy hands away, to insult him lower than a dog. The heartrender’s touch made a war dog almost peaceful in his bed—no small feat, by any measure—and Viktor knew it, was nearly embarrassed by it, so much that he’d be equally as enraged to be discovered in this position as he would other, more compromising situations.
Alas, the door remains closed—locked, as it always is, and the brute remains docile, but only just.
The Grisha knows better than to expect any sort of real thanks, and as if to prove him right, the prince merely grunts, sinking further into his plush mattress and wrapping his strong arms around the pillow. He’d like nothing more than to doze off, but not with him still in his chambers—not with the risk of the other man falling asleep and being found or trapped there (he’s not sure which is worse). When the bed eases up in response to the weight lifted off it, he thinks, perhaps, he might be free of him without having to demand it.
He’s wrong, and he can’t stay it truly surprises him. Dmitri Alekseev, for all his skill in other endeavors, has never been particularly adept at minding his own business and—no pun intended, though they often are—keeping his hands to himself. The royal cracks an eye to look at him, and when his eyes fall on the new general’s uniform hanging outside his wardrobe, his most prized possession as of late, he heaves a prideful sigh. “And will you be the first?”
