Warning: some readers may find the described actions sexually explicit and coercive. No actual sex happens. 

“He’s an interesting one, right?” 

Still shaken by Pavlo’s sudden mention of his brother, the added disturbance made Demyan gracelessly jump in his seat. The beer in his hand sloshed with a hasty movement, and some of it splashed onto his robes. Cursing under his breath, Demyan glanced to the right. 

“I hate when you do that,” he muttered. 

Only one person had the nerve and ability to sneak up on him. 

Chuckling, Leksa pried the tankard from Demyan’s hand and, in smug demonstration, took a small sip. Demyan knew all too well that Leksa hated the taste of spirited drinks, but he could tolerate some just for the sake of pettiness. 

Just a tiny amount. 

Getting him drunk was close to impossible. No emotional turmoil could break Leksa enough to tolerate the ‘abhorrence’ that was strong liquor for his delicate palate. 

Arrogantly leaning his shoulder against the throne’s side, Leksa was studying the contents of the tankard with peculiar eyes. He either found it revolting or fascinating, he never conveyed one simple truth with his facial expressions. Demyan, though, would bet on the latter.  

While hating strong alcohol, Leksa also had a sweet tooth. The honeyed beverage was bound to catch his interest. 

And, indeed, as if to double-check, Leksa took a few more sips. 

Busying himself with wiping the stains off his robe, Demyan tried to hide his victorious grin. Though he had prepared Waravian wine, he knew mentioning it was as good as ensuring Leksa wouldn’t drink a drop of it. But Medov beer, with its mild and floral taste, was a perfect bait. Especially if it was something Leksa could unceremoniously steal from him. 

The excitement was short-lived. The smell of honey mixed with Leksa’s fresh scent of apple blossoms, assaulting Demyan’s nostrils. Gently. Leksa had bathed, changed into clean clothes, exchanged his breast pate for a tailored set of forest-green zhupan robes that left his neck open just the right amount. Demyan had to consciously remind himself not to sniff the air around Leksa. No matter how head-spinning the scent was. Or how teasing that tiny expanse of skin below his throat was.

“What’s with Pavlo?” Demyan asked instead, mostly to divert his own attention. 

Taking another swing of his drink—Demyan said farewell to the unfinished beer the moment it got snatched from him—Leksa snorted.

“He adores you. Begged me to join the party to Bishov.” There wasn’t much of a sentiment behind Leksa’s lazy explanation. 

Raising his eyebrows, Demyan showed his doubt clearly. Leksa, unhurriedly swaying the tankard, didn’t grace him with a look. He watched over the hall as if he were the one who threw the feast and had to verify its quality. 

“And you were so nice to let him? Funny,” Demyan noted, undisguised skepticism in his voice. “Also, give me back my drink.”

As expected, Leksa pointedly took a few long gulps. Once the tankard was empty, he loftily handed it back. If he were sober, he would’ve never fallen into such an obvious trap. But, as it was, a dusting of red colored his cheeks, and his eyes glazed over. 

“Why wouldn’t I let him? He’s too simple to plot anything.” Leksa shrugged. “Plus, now he owes me another favor. Aren’t I a benevolent Lord?” He added with a chuckle, the ‘lord’ said with obvious sarcasm. Leksa rarely slipped into addressing himself by his noble title. Almost never. But now he did.

Drawing his eyebrows together, Leksa caught his own mistake. 

Demyan, smiling as if nothing was wrong, eagerly observed Leksa slowly come to terms with what happened.

The most significant thing about Medov beer wasn’t its mild, sweet taste. It was how strong it was precisely despite that mild, sweet taste. 

A few cups were enough to make even someone as large as Kost drunk. For Leksa, who, Demyan was sure, still didn’t drink enough to have a good tolerance, half of Demyan’s tankard was akin to drinking two bottles of wine. 

Getting Leksa drunk was close to impossible, true. 

Demyan knew—he had tried many times. 

Thus, he was bound to eventually succeed, just on a few occasions. He loved a good challenge, after all. Those few rare occasions, they were engraved in his mind along with countless war strategies, battle tactics and host formations. 

Blinking, Leksa tried to focus his gaze. 

“The fuck-,” Leksa stuttered, scowling, ”the fuck was in that beer?” he finally asked, both confused and infuriated. He tried to snatch himself away from Demyan, but the smart move only made him lose his balance. To regain his footing, he was forced to grab onto Demyan’s throne. 

Chuckling, Demyan watched Leksa blush harder—both from rage and alcohol heating up his blood. With all the leisure of a victorious commander gloating over his thoroughly defeated enemy, Demyan stood up and ambled around Leksa.

Once Demyan stood right behind his victim, he placed his hands on Leksa’s waist and helped him to stand straighter, holding him. Seizing him, finally, in his oh so welcoming arms.

“Nothing,” Demyan smirked, leaning down so he could whisper right into Leksa’s ear. “It’s just a strong one. You gulped it down so quickly I didn’t have the time to warn you.” 

He had more than enough time. 

But then, he would miss an opportunity to giddily watch the blush spread to the back of Leksa's neck, reaching the tips of his ears.

So fucking cute. 

How prideful did Leksa get to so audaciously and presumptuously stride right into Demyan’s clutches?

“I hate you,” Leksa muttered through gritted teeth. 

He tried to free himself, grabbing Demyan’s hands to shake them off. Of course, he failed. Demyan was always stronger, Leksa could only win him thanks to his agile speed and fast thinking. Advantages that Demyan, in precaution, disarmed. 

However, he wouldn’t be so arrogant as to deem Leksa defenceless just yet. So he grabbed Leksa tighter and held him closer to his chest, making sure he couldn’t move. 

“You fucking brute, I can’t breathe.” Leksa seethed.

“Then choke and die,” Demyan offered, not loosening his hold.

He felt Leksa’s chest shift as he took a gulp of air. 

“Do you want everyone to- to see their high and mighty warlord lust over a man? Where’s your shame?” Leksa tried a different approach. But, once again, he was too drunk to use a suitable counter-offensive. 

In the middle of the hall, two knights were in the climax of a drunken scruffle. The crowd around them laughed and cheered, all their attention on the clumsy fight. With a quick glance, Demyan didn’t meet a single pair of eyes looking in the throne’s direction. And if even someone managed to sneak a peek, Demyan’s pride would scarcely suffer. It wasn’t a secret that some of the people who warmed his bed happened to be men. 

Smiling, Demyan nuzzled the side of Leksa’s neck, breathing in that head-spinning scent. 

“What’s so wrong with lusting over my own wife? It’s to be expected, no shame in that,” he mumbled into the skin. The slight tremble that followed made Demyan preen. 

Leksa stilled, surely trying to calculate his next move. 

Unbothered and allowing him take all the time he needed, Demyan eased his hold a bit to circle his hands around more firmly. Now, it couldn’t pass for a martial restraint; it could only be seen as a passionate embrace. 

Blood boiling and mind in a fog, Demyan dreamed of embracing Leksa in earnest. So the bones would fracture, ribs would crack, so that heart of stone would break into a million pieces and the dust would pollute the lungs. 

Sighing, Leksa relaxed in Demyan’s hands, leaning back against his chest. He turned his face just enough to almost let their lips touch. 

“Husband,” Leksa breathed out, full of longing, “do you want everyone to see me like this? I feel so hot in your hands—” his glassy eyes looked at Demyan, dark and inviting, “ —so hot that it makes me all—” he pressed his rear against the most sacred part, “—mhn, yeah, makes me so fucking wet.” 

…

Demyan gulped. 

He got ambushed.

Fuck.