MAN O' WAR

“Enjoying dinner with my lovely fiance– what does it look like I’m doing, Viktor?” His reaction was mild to what she was expecting, and so she kept up her facade, even daring to smile as she said his name instead of his title. She would keep her head high, and hope she could manage something before he left the room or forced her out. 

“And when will be the time?” she smiled at the servant pouring her glass of wine, picking the cup up with a few delicate, red fingertips. “I declare it now. And tonight, I shall have my way.” 

He nearly scoffs at being called lovely, but her arrogance—a cheap, gaudy version of his own—is enough to elicit a cruel laugh from his lips. “It looks like you’re playing house, like a little girl.” And if he truly loathed her enough to see his arrow of a remark strike true, he would spare her a glance to catch a glimpse of her (hopefully insulted) reaction, but he doesn’t, instead choosing to spear a piece of meat and eat it.

“You declare nothing. I’ve a meeting to attend within the hour, and generals do not answer to their wives.” Her backbone may earn her some respect yet, but not tonight—not like this. “I didn’t send for you.”

A single nerve snapped, a string pulled – the name that made him sound less man and more mongrel, a petulant child weighed down by the will of emotion, by how much food was on his plate or how much affection his mommy showed him. His brows knots together, and his easy smile strains him so. It is downright painful, the agitation he feel every time Viktor opens his god-forsaken mouth. 

“Ah, yes – the time-old, beyond years, dilemma of funds. Is this all you’re good for dear brother? Poking holes in other people’s plans without offering ideas of your own?” Viktor speaks as though he is God walking among men, but Anton knows himself to be something altogether much more savvy: a fox. “Besides, we both know I did not mean for them to produced on a wider scale, but for them to be given to the more senior officers. Or would you prefer Konstantin topple from his horse because a Shu had the better rifle? Better yet, yourself? Here I thought you had a grander death planned for yourself.” 

The other option had occurred to Anton, of course; stop making kefta’s of corecloth for all Grisha and only provide them once they earned their keep, once they proved their worthiness of the material instead of giving it to them so freely – but that was a thought for more desperate times.   

“No. I’m quite good at thinking with my head not stuck up my ass, something you seem to struggle with.” Disgust coats his words and makes them slippery, but the Lantsov prince harbors no desire to hold them in. “Your ‘I can do anything I put my mind to’ attitude might be enough for a few hundred starvation-crazed soldiers, but it won’t earn you any favors with the privy council.” Perhaps his words could be taken with a grain of salt and cultivated into his advice, but Viktor takes a particular sort of pleasure in the thought of his brother floundering before a board of nobles and hoping his abstract ideas might keep him afloat; regardless, he knows better, and he’ll spare no opportunity to show it.

“Oh, we do?” He narrows his eyes at the heir in the mirror, his gaze unflinching even as the servant’s needle pricks him for what must be the eighth time thus far, but with a roll of his shoulders, he dismisses his own condescending question. Saints forbid his brother even dares to make the argument that he has nothing to contribute. “Fine. For senior officers, then. But I’d like to invest a bit more in our weaponry, as well. The finest corecloth in the world won’t do us any good if we fall behind in the arms race.” For all that the two of them have been away from the front lines for weeks, the war, he knows, hasn’t let up in their absence. The Shu’s firearms have evolved, and with them, their capacity to slaughter.

“Lord Vasnev should take no issue with providing funds soon enough.” That same smugness that colors his tone nearly every other word creeps back in once more, both at the purse he’s brought in for the war and the fact that his marriage, though inconvenient, is far superior to his brother’s none. “Father wants me wed in the coming months. There’s not much of a point in prolonging the engagement when Valeriya’s dowry alone could give us an advantage.” He pauses to murmur something about his cuffs to the servant, deliberately allowing his older brother time to stew on it. “I don’t suppose he told you.”

date: december 27th location: private, secret dining place with some dark regal fancy decorations availability: closed to @viktorlantsov

Valeriya entered the room with her head high, knowing her beloved fiance would have some choice words for her in the next few moments. It had taken a bit of cunning on her part to figure out where he was–dining in a private hall alone, and where he had to go–some silly war meetings, and catch him in the moment so he wouldn’t be able to leave. The dingy, dark room he had decided to feast in was perfectly in character for him, yet she decided quickly that she could and would be the ray of sunshine in it. 

“Hello, my Prince,” Valeriya greeted Viktor with a smile, motioning for her servants with the food and settings to follow her. She approached the chair to his left, waiting for a servant to pull it out for her to sit down. “I must say, forgive me if I am too forward, but I am beyond ecstatic to be dining with you this evening.” 

He is war incarnate, blood on a man’s knuckles and cracks in his bones; he is violence made flesh, the gleam of a blade and the firing of a gun. It’s awfully strange, then, that he rather enjoys his meager hours of peace—revels in them like a glass of fine wine or a good fuck.

Yet it’s not strange in the least that his peace should be shattered, and the identity of the culprit is so painfully expected—and altogether grating—that he nearly scoffs at the sight of her, barging in as if she not only had the right, but the reason. He’d intended to dine alone, lest the menial chatter that inevitably follows a dinner shared with company impede upon the time he’d allotted for a military meeting, and she’s come in seemingly dead-set on devouring every minute he’d hoped to claim for his own.

Greedy, spoiled brat. “What are you doing?” He asks disinterestedly, eyeing the plate of steaming beef set before her by a servant. “Now is not the time, Valeriya.” He is as any bachelor is: greedy, selfish, loath to be tied to a dining chair and forced to make nice.

The tedious business of war was nothing compared to the pettiness of brothers, and there was no shortage of such a war of words between the two remaining Lantsov boys. Can’t we just play nice? he thinks about asking his younger brother, but there had always been a weakness to Anton’s false sincerity when Viktor was near, as though the simple presence of the other Lantsov was enough to remind him that his life was a living lie: a bastard playing king. Every ulterior motive, every word that slipped off of his tongue like grace, every word directed towards Viktor was made into some kind of sneer, some kind of silken consequence. “An eighth of an inch higher on the right leg hem,” he says instead, casting his gaze towards his brothers ankle, choosing to disregard the criticism with significantly more grace than Viktor had. 

Such tended to be the pattern: one a lion in the sun, the other a wolf, confined to shadows and everything else harsh that came with them. “We should discuss extra security measures,” he says, despite how he knows his brother may react, despite the servants in the room. Every one in Ravka knew he was fighting for this, or at least he’d made enough of a fuss about it that he assumed everyone knew. “I really believe we should think about commissioning the Durasts to see about making uniforms of corecloth for some of the First Army soldiers.” There is no lightness to his voice anymore, except the excitement rumbling in his chest at the prospect of getting his idea off the ground; it would require the Grisha and humans to work together more closely, to figure out what worked for the Grisha that didn’t work for the human forces, but it was an idea that had been stirring for years, and Anton was determined to make it work. He wouldn’t let his boyish excitement get in the way, and Viktor would more than likely use it against him if he let it show.  “It may help them fight the Shu more effectively.”

He deflects, choosing to acknowledge an imperfection in the servants’ work rather than his brother’s insult, and Viktor marvels at what it must mean to be a king: to have the sort of selective hearing some might call poise, and to act on it and with it, relentlessly. How exhausting, he thinks, to talk one’s way out of a tight spot rather than fighting one’s way out with claws and bloodied teeth—but then again, Anton had always been more energetic in the art of never shutting his mouth, and it had never been trouble worth noting for the youngest Lantsov boy to knock him on his ass, on a good day.

It all came down to what a man dedicated himself to; Anton excelled at talking—at bossing armies around, and Viktor excelled at doing. Only one could win a war.

But the other could certainly try. His brother—half, his pride cheekily chides—effortlessly moves from fabrics to finances, and if he were humbler, more willing to give the crown prince credit where some may have argued credit was due, he might admire him for that, for his versatility. Instead, he raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Yes,” he says slowly, drawing it out like an artist painting for coin, but he’s acknowledging far more than he’s agreeing, and such a distinction need not go unnoticed. Listen—learn to tell a roar from a war cry. “And where do you expect to pull that money from, sobachka? Your ass?” Even if it weren’t such an unprecedented idea—the stuff of dreamers, like a well-oiled economy or unyielding peace, almost mythic—he would certainly take any opportunity to derail the other man’s plans. “The witches don’t work for cheap—certainly not at that grand of a scale. What makes you so convinced it’s worth it?” Men aren’t quite dispensable to him, provided they earn their keep, but the war raging within him speaks of murdering the men some other way and keeping the corecloth as a prize—like armor, like a spit in the face.

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?” 

Lost, your Grace? 

A regal brow arches, as if to answer his question with another. What do you suppose? She wants to know, she often does. If she had seen herself through his eyes, she wanted to know what she’d find in her place — beyond the taunting line of her mouth, a book balanced between her fingers, dark eyes looking up at him. Was her tragedy devastating to him, or was it pathetic?

Rhea loathed to be thought pathetic by him, by anyone, after all she had done to disassociate herself from that shadow on her heels — pity, disappointment. When she smiles at him, she smiles with her teeth; just to be sure he sees them there, a simper which is slow and sharp, terrible and brute. 

“Hardly, your Highness. Do I look it?” she hums in response to his query, and she wants to know. Has she not outgrown her capacity for innocence? To be lost, and not searching — hunting. As she is, as she always is.

He scoffs at her then—at the arch of her brow, at her faux innocence (as if a wolf of a woman could ever hope to impersonate a lamb), his mouth, drawn in a straight line, quirking up in something of a smirk. “Yes, actually.” Rhea Tereshkin—her maiden name escapes him now, and it’s quite a shame, considering he liked her far better before—has never struck him as the bookish type, the sort of woman who seeks out quiet corners to enjoy her reading, and he can’t deny that it’s strange to see her here, perched atop a garden bench instead of slithering about it like the snake he knows she can be.

And perhaps it’s even a bit endearing, though certainly not in the way of a child or one of his sister’s docile ladies—Rhea Tereshkin is quite a bit more thorn than petal, more steel than porcelain. But he would hate to give her too much credit, especially after a spectacle such as this.

“Who are you watching for, Rhea? I’ve never known you as a lover of the outdoors.” It’s best, he knows, to cut the snake off at the head.

For a moment, Valeriya entertains the idea that this is some kind of victory, that him smiling (that’s what that sneer is, right?) and leading her onto the dance floor, his eyes looking over her like so many other men have this evening, means more than just a party jester or a gesture for the countrymen. Only for a moment. Because, as quick as the idea that she’s somehow taken a piece of his heart for herself, as soon as the smile–a genuine smile–crosses her lips, it is taken from her by his snide remark. Again.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Valeriya curses herself, finding the will within her to feign her smile even when she feels like screaming. Part of her was surprised she had yet to give up on their ridiculous game, to throw in the towel and scream with all his might that he’s won. That’s she’s his and he will never be her’s. He was seemingly unconquerable, far from something she could whisper to her servant she desires and have delivered to her on a silver platter. But, after all this time and all her effort, Valeriya was not going to give up so easily. 

Onto the next trick it was. 

“It is just fashion, my Prince,” she manages out in the next moment, hoping her pause could be blamed on anything but her surprise. Perhaps wrapping her arm around his shoulder, or remembering the steps to the next dance. But, from what Valeriya had come to understand, he was twice as devious as she could dream of being. He knew what he was doing. She hated him for it. “Does it displease you?” she pulled herself back to look at his face, staring into his dark eyes with a clever little smile. Two could play at his game. Or, rather, she could try. 

The woman he’s been promised is beautiful—uncommonly so, and Viktor Lantsov, for all his love of brutality of both the violent and verbal sort (the latter of which she herself has just become a victim), is not too proud or dull or blind to recognize it, to admire that spill of hair black as night, those eyes like rich chocolate, her lips painted cherry-red, and at the risk of being unforgivably blunt, her other, more desirable assets, those which even she is loathe to let him ignore. He looks at her and sees a woman any man would kill to have—lovely and well-read and wealthier than half of Ravka’s lot thrown in together, and despite his stubborn nature, despite the part of him that chafes at being told who he might marry and her damnable softness and embarrassing naivete, he revels in calling her his.

He’s always been a selfish boy, so unwilling to leave any toys for others, even if he has no need for them himself; ask his brother.

She’s struck dumb by his remark, and it gives him pleasure to know it, but it irks him, too. “Women and their trends,” he tsks, clearly disinterested with fashion, be it revealing or not. Yet she’s not as passive as he would have her seem, for when she pulls away from him to look him in the eye, he sees something in her smile that he hadn’t before—a little less porcelain, a little more steel. Is she toying with him?

“I certainly wouldn’t wear it myself.” He is so much like his brother that it’s not at all hard to believe they never shared a womb, their shared cleverness having been acquired either through their father or their upbringing, but if he knows it, he doesn’t acknowledge it—blasphemy. To hell with apathy and his dull friends; he’s having fun.

littleflvme:

WHAT ARE YOUR MUSE’S AESTHETICS?

BOLD ANY WHICH APPLY TO YOUR MUSE. ITALICIZE WHAT THEY LIKE. STRIKEOUT WHAT THEY DON’T LIKE.

FEEL FREE TO ADD TO THE LIST.

BOYS TURNED GODS date: december 29th, year 1 location: the grand palace time: 8 a.m. availability: @viktorlantsov

Boys will be boys, or so Anton had always heard. 

As it was, there was nothing boy-like, nothing so childish or frivolous about his morning thus far. He’d awoken at some ungodly hour, too wound up by the situation with the Shu’s army to really get a decent nights sleep; though, to be fair, Anton had never much been one for sleeping. There were too many precious moments in day to fill, to many things to do to waste them on shut eyes. He’d always preferred to make use of dawn’s rays for reading paperwork, for moving pawns on a table to develop a potential strategy. 

At some point after the sun had broken over the distant horizon, sending gentle waves of sunlight through his bedroom, Anton had grown weary of the words and the work and left to seek out other, more entertaining forms of passing the time. Instead he found Viktor’s bedroom door left ajar, allowing full sight of the spectacle taking place: his brother on a platform, standing above all of the servants in the room ( one seemed to be making the bed, another arranging his morning meal out in some peculiarly pleasing design, and not one but two flitting about his person, taking measurements and adding pins where some flaw was detected ). 

Anton leans lightly against the doorframe, somehow seeming aloof and calm despise the chaos going on beyond palace walls, beyond the uncomfortable safety of Os Alta, and his chest rises and falls with the weight of an exaggerated sigh, as thought he is tired by the sight he now beholds: Viktor Lantsov, wearing his uniform. Or, well, not Anton’s exactly, but one custom fitted to his brothers shoulders. Still though, a uniform that Anton had been wearing for years, for what felt like decades. A uniform that had become as much a part of his soul as the Lantsov blood in his veins was. 

Boys would be boys, and boys were petty, hostile little things, made all the worse by the Lantsov brothers status not as mere boys, but gods – children made divine.

“Little brother,” he says, using techniques he had long ago learned from repeated years of belittling by an elder brother. There’s an arrogant twist to his lips at the playful antagonism, his mouth somewhere caught between bored hunger and an immutable need to prove himself better than everyone – including Viktor. “Trying to fill shoes bigger than your own again, I see.” 

Boys would be boys.  

They’d roused him early, the first of several consecutive mistakes they’d make that morning.

The youngest Lantsov boy had never been an early riser, even as a child, and though he wasn’t particularly amicable when allowed to sleep as long as he liked, he proved a nightmare when awakened early of any other accord but his own. It was a childish luxury he’d grown out of when his dreams of becoming a formidable general had taken root, forcing himself to rise and wield a sword long before the sun had the chance and teaching himself to see the dawn as another victory to be claimed, but all men indulge in their vices from time to time, and Viktor Lantsov’s happen to favor his bed.

Better sleeping than something else, he nearly thinks as he’s cautiously prodded awake by a servant, but he dismisses the thought, resisting the urge to throw an elbow at the young boy and chalking up the weak streak of positivity to his little sister’s influence.

He’s been atop the makeshift platform for what feels like an hour when a rather intrusive exhale—far too bold for any of the servants attending him to have mustered—sounds at the door, prompting both the prince and the young woman who has pricked him no less than five times since she took her needle in hand to turn and look. When the girl pauses to offer his bastard brother the same obligatory curtsy she’d given him, he clenched his jaw to keep from hurrying her along.

And it stays clenched, because Anton Lantsov’s presence demands no less.

By the time the Crown Prince speaks, the general-to-be has already turned his back on him to admire the look of his new uniform, a privilege made even sweeter by the fact that his dear brother will probably never wear it again. When he takes the throne, Viktor will at least have this: his battles, his station, his wars. And perhaps for a man like him, that will be enough.

Or perhaps not. “Though luckily not as big as your head, brother,” he sneers, running a hand down the front of his shirt to smooth out a stray wrinkle. “Have you already grown bored of your new duties? All play and no work hardly suits the crown.” The rest goes unspoken: and neither do you.

The sun has just begun its languid descent when he returns, his hunger ill-sated and his mount’s hindquarters ringing wet—the latter a sign of a fruitful hunt, or at the very least, a worthwhile chase, and the former proof that failure was not so wonderfully (or terribly) clear-cut—and he thinks to beat it like he did as a boy, passing his reins to a stable girl and peeling off his riding gloves as though it’ll give him an edge.

But the sentiment’s moments are numbered, and it shrivels up before he can fully commit to heading inside, sometime between shrugging off his heavier coat and catching sight of her.

He’d like to feign utter disinterest, and in truth, he still does, but the very idea of him pausing to converse with the countess at all is a testament to the existence of some preoccupation, even that as small as a mustard seed (and what do they say—beggars can’t be choosy?). 

“Lost, your Grace?”