Merlinfic: Fraternising
Title: Fraternising
Author: shutupeccles
Fandom: Merlin. Therefore characters belong to BBC and Shine, not to me.
Pairing: Sir Leon/Arthur
Rated: R Words: 5300
Be warned: Sir Osric (mentioned among the dead in 3.01) performs the strangest wartime drag act known to man, 3000+ words before naughty bits
Summary: Freshly knighted Leon is appointed Arthur’s mentor and tent-mate on the Prince’s first gruelling campaign. The predictable happens after some moral dithering and inconvenient war stuff.
A/N: background detail for Friendly Vengeance as politely requested by kattale (Sorry about the detail:'detail' ratio, plot insisted on happening. Forgive?)
Three months before Merlin came to Camelot…
“Someone has an admirer.” Sir Osric’s low voice carries a hint of humour and Leon drops his guard. The momentary lapse allows his younger charge to trip Leon and pin him on his back. Prince Arthur kicks Leon’s sword away and removes his own helmet to positively beam triumph into his fallen opponent’s face.
“Hand up, Sir Leon?” The Prince gloats as he offers unnecessary assistance.
Good thing he’s a shallow, callous little prick beneath that gorgeous golden grin, or Leon would be mesmerised by how annoyingly beautiful he is and do something to humiliate them both. Instead, Leon scowls as he gets to his feet, ignoring the extended arm, and brushes dirt of his backside as he reclaims the sword. Blue eyes harden slightly and the Prince begins to adopt the cold distance so abhorrent in his father’s stance. Leon’s reaction has caused the worst kind of offence.
“You took proper advantage of an opponent’s weakness, swiftly and efficiently. Well done Sire.” Hopefully that will placate the royal ego and save me from the stocks.
Prince Arthur beams again, with pride this time, and Sir Osric chortles with some of the older Knights. Tightness returns to royal blue eyes and he looks away from Leon with a flush to his neck that isn’t a result of their sparring. Leon’s eyes widen as he understands. Osric's earlier barb wasn’t aimed at me.
|~~~|
It is not a crush.
Osric and his nonsense!
Friendly rivalry encourages all to be their best.
There are worse Knights to emulate in Camelot, Osric for one.
Still, Arthur cannot help analysing the sting caused by Leon’s disapproval.
|~~~|
“Arthur will be housed in one of the ordinary tents. Assassins sent by our enemies will aim directly for the royal pavilion. Sir Leon?” King Uther directly addresses the newest addition to his army, startling Leon from thoughts of how tedious he finds this strategy side of warfare.
“Sire?”
“I place my son in your care.”
“Perhaps Sir Pellinor or Bors…”
“Freshly knighted and already you question my judgement?”
“No Sire. Merely…”
“Arthur will feel I doubt his skill at arms. Then he will begin to doubt it himself. Besides, the on-field rivalry between the two of you drives him to impress…” The King continues listing his reasons, oblivious to Osric smirking over his shoulder.
Leon nods acceptance of King Uther’s orders in the council, but once in the stables he turns on Osric. “In future, kindly spare our King’s honour by aiming your juvenile mockery at me, rather than his heir.”
“An heir has yet to be named, if you recall Sir Leon.”
“Who besides Arthur would he name? Lady Morgana?” Leon asks with a quick smile at his own joke.
“Gods help us if that one becomes Queen,” Pellinor declares, making a sign of superstitious protection against his chest. Other Knights join the debate and the matter of Leon housing Arthur in his tent forgotten.
|~~~|
The crowd in the King’s pavilion is ridiculous. Arthur stands by his father’s elbow, arms crossed over his chest, and wearing the sternest expression of boredom he can maintain with any degree of success. Eventually Uther peers beneath his arm to see his son’s aspect remains unchanged. He exhales in defeat before lifting his head and clearing the council.
“What is it Arthur?” Uther asks wearily.
“Do you place such a low value on my life that you’ll house me with Leon on this trip rather than one of your senior Knights?”
“Sir Leon is as capable as any other.”
“And I am not capable of defending myself?” Regretfully, this outburst makes Arthur sound like Morgana in one of her moods. Oh well, it works for her…
“You stood there like a stuffed bear to bother me with something as trivial as this?” Father asks in disbelief. “Further bouts of immaturity will see you sent home! As a member of my army, you shall juggle a basket of kittens should I give the order, immediately and without question. You are sharing a tent with Sir Leon for the duration of this campaign and that is final!”
“Yes Father, sorry Father.” Arthur bows meekly and backs out of the pavilion, waiting until the council reconvenes before celebrating his victory with a sly smile. Now Osric can spread conjecture all he likes. Father will never believe it.
|~~~|
Prince Arthur is surrounded by the band of aspiring knights he normally leads in mischief, and Sir Leon has been given command of this royal nursery.
The first foray into disputed territory consists of trudging through sludge and destroying ambushes. Orders and intelligence are communicated through whispers and hand gestures. Cold meals are eaten on the march. There is no opportunity for idle conversation.
Fears of being ignored or humiliated by this untried group of spoiled nobles dissolve more rapidly than the mist they travel through. Arthur’s deference to Leon’s military seniority ensures his peers efficiently follow orders. His focus equals that of seasoned campaigners. Leon sees a serious, responsible young man in place of the familiar pampered bully. It gives him hope for Camelot’s future.
|~~~|
Dreams of battlefields, adventure, and glory are quickly put to rest. Arthur hopes his mind will follow suit as he and Leon arrange their bedrolls in the tiny tent. He’s utterly exhausted. The temptation to fall on his bed in full armour is stronger than his willpower.
A steadying hand on his shoulder prevents him making that very mistake.
“Allow me Sire.”
Arthur lacks the energy to argue as Leon expertly performs the duties of a squire. Once the heavy mail is lifted from his shoulders, Arthur expresses his gratitude through a yawn. “So sore!” he complains as he almost collapses into the blanketed sanctuary of bed.
Leon chuckles, hinting that tomorrow will be worse. Arthur falls asleep before he can see if his admirable tent-mate sleeps naked.
|~~~|
Slight movement of swords between them suggests Arthur is awake. It takes a moment for the sounds that disturbed Arthur to register. Oh, he doesn’t know about that.
“Nothing to concern yourself with Sire,” Leon carefully avoids drawing further attention to the activity in an adjacent tent.
“But…”
“Such things occur away from home.” Confusion in the darker shadows of Arthur’s face make Leon embarrassed on his behalf. “I will mention…” gods know what “…to the King and he will inform you as necessary. You must rest for tomorrow. Trust me Sire.”
Luckily Arthur does, and returns to bed.
|~~~|
“Ah yes, that.” Father looks at Arthur thoughtfully after Sir Leon’s subtle murmur during breakfast. He waves all but Prince and Leon from the pavilion, pacing carefully with both hands behind his back, deep in thought. “It is not uncommon…” Father begins, then shakes his head and begins again. “Fraternising between soldiers-”
“Is that all that was? Good lord, I fraternise all the time.” Arthur stops. Leon’s expression implies Arthur grasped the wrong end of the sword on this one, while Father’s bellows that he better not fraternise, on penalty of death. “We aren’t talking about sharing a tankard of mead between friends here, are we?”
Leon is quick to suppress his sympathetic amusement. The twitch of his mouth as he tries to keep control of his mirth holds Arthur’s attention. “Do you ‘fraternise’?” Arthur asks his father, then realises that did not provide a welcome distraction.
“Get out, and take your chortling nursemaid with you.”
|~~~|
The second day is much like the first, with the occasional skirmish added to trudging through sludge. One of Arthur’s companions complains loudly of sore feet.
“We can lop them off and leave you for enemy scouts to nurse back to health,” Arthur counters briskly. There are no more complaints. Not until bedtime anyway.
“My feet hurt all the way to my backside!” Arthur whinges into his rolled cape.
Leon is too preoccupied to chuckle. He juggles a wooden pot of liniment from hand to hand before tossing it beside Arthur’s elbow.
“Can’t you do it?” Arthur suggests gruffly.
“I’m not a prostitute,” Leon grumbles when he’d much rather ask ‘how far up would you like me to go?’
“Do you fraternise?” Arthur asks with seemingly innocent curiosity.
“I’m not a prostitute,” Leon says again and this time they both chuckle.
Arthur aims a cheeky smile Leon’s way. “Then I promise not to pay you.”
With an involuntary grin, Leon throws his bundled cape at Arthur’s bum.
“Ow,” Arthur fusses and then sighs roughly. “Tomorrow’s going to be worse, isn’t it?”
“Much.”
“Bugger.”
“Not tonight.” Leon is appalled by this audacity, until Arthur laughs, yawns and closes his eyes. It seems he misjudged his Prince. Maybe Arthur is neither as shallow nor callous as Leon first thought.
|~~~|
New recruits long for the good old days of trudging mindlessly through sludge before sun sets on the third day. Many have made their first kill and the camp is full of euphoria, tears, and vomiting as the men comes to terms with dealing death.
Arthur travels through the ranks in a separate direction to his father, offering congratulations and commiserations depending upon each individual’s perspective. Sir Leon is his silent bodyguard, eyes showing approval above a stern expression, or standing nearby with back turned if Arthur needs to use the pit.
“Can you imagine the horror of having killed so many you no longer recall the first?” Arthur grinds the butt of each palm into an eye as he asks. “Or would it be worse to relive that feeling each time? Which is the more human response - jubilation or shame?”
“Remembering that our foes are men as we are is both blessing and curse. It can stop us committing atrocities, or make us vulnerable to their deceptions. Both sides take and lose cherished members of a family, regardless.”
Arthur rolls onto his side to better appreciate Sir Leon’s solemn profile. He wants to ask how the battles Leon has fought affect him, but that seems a dangerously personal question. So instead he asks a stupid one. “Am I automatically Sir Arthur because I’m son of the King or must I earn it like any other nobleman?”
“Would you like the title to arrive on your breakfast plate?” A line of disappointment forms above Leon’s nose.
“If I wanted to be made fun of I would have asked Father. He expected me to know and be all from birth. Sir Geoffrey’s answer to everything is “Look in a book” without pointing out which book, or indeed which section of the library to begin looking in! Morgana’s no better. They’re determined to make me feel an imbecile, as are you apparently.” Arthur turns away from the humiliation of that last admission.
“Sire-”
“We’d better get to sleep if this war’s going to worsen day by day.”
|~~~|
Leon watches the rigid set of Arthur’s posture relax as the Prince slowly finds sleep. Metal armour may sit by the opening of their tent for now, but a heftier weight is permanently borne by those young shoulders.
Perhaps the odd spot of mischief makes his responsibilities easier to bear. Unfortunately, any such distractions must wait for the journey home. Leon’s life depends upon Arthur’s safety.
|~~~|
Days four through ten are almost identical to the third, except with less jubilation and weeping, and far more vomiting. One fifth of the army remains in camp, indisposed and under guard. Several men die of infection or dehydration before the sun reaches its zenith on the eleventh day.
There is talk of retreat among the less experienced. Despair settles among them when they learn the fighting will continue. Hardened warriors share proven methods of boosting morale. One favourite remains as popular as when it was performed for Beltane three years ago. Sir Osric holds bowls to his chest to represent female bosoms while five other knights become a living skirt by bending over and holding each other’s shoulders around his waist. They clumsily twirl about Osric as his hips swing side to side and he sings the falsetto tale of a noblewoman constantly fighting off lusty suitors. Other men under his command take turns ‘pursuing’ the noblewoman, only to be bumped away by one of the bottoms forming her dress.
Arthur sits beside the King. His father’s laughter enhances his own enjoyment. Uther stands to applaud as Osric and his skirt make an awkward bow, laughing loudly when they topple over.
“Gracious Sir Osric! Some may fraternise with one man in the field, but you require five?” Arthur calls out, forgetting himself. Luckily Father laughs louder than ever and wipes a mirthful tear from one eye as he claps his son on the back.
“And that, gentleman, signifies the end of tonight’s entertainment.” Their King bids his army goodnight with a wave of one hand and retires to his pavilion.
Arthur hurries to Leon’s tent before Osric seeks retribution, and finds Leon already there.
“I thought it best not to give Osric opportunity to place something in your bed, lest it end up in mine by mistake.”
“Sorry…”
“Off the battlefield you are in a position of authority second only to the King. Others will mimic your behaviour without the benefit of your rank to protect them. Next time think before opening your mouth! …Sire.” Sir Leon’s disapproval fills the tent and threatens to suffocate them both. “The King enjoyed your comment at least,” Leon adds but it provides no comfort to Arthur’s wounded pride.
He’d thought, after how he conducted himself on the battlefield and with all the frivolity this evening wrought so far, but he clearly thought wrong. He can never win his mentor’s admiration, so shall stop trying to become more than another pupil.
|~~~|
Camelot’s foe sounds retreat at some point between midday and sunset on the fifteenth day. A cheer rises from those draped in red and gold. Surely they’ll begin to march home before nightfall!
No such luck. Still, with their enemies turning tail there is no reason for Arthur not to sleep in the royal pavilion, where he belongs, instead of Leon’s meagre tent, where he obviously has no wish to be. The Prince needs to learn when he’s reprimanded for the good of the kingdom and stop behaving like the pampered, pompous prick that Leon always knew he was … thought he was … assumed he was. The past four days have been dreadful because Leon knows Arthur shows potential to be far more than a royal bully, but refuses to live up to it.
|~~~|
It’s almost enough to make Arthur send Morgana on campaign in his place next time. Not allowed to carry his weight as part of a scouting patrol or merely sit sentry by one of the campfires, forced to continue sleeping under the disapproving gaze of Sir Leon of Moral High-ground in case this retreat is a feint and assassins lurk ready to slaughter King and Prince with a single arrow or something equally improbable.
“I have no wish to be here anymore than you want me here, so shut up,” Arthur grumbles as he enters the tent. Osric deliberately let slip how ardently Leon tried to sway the King’s position regarding this arrangement. Arthur wouldn’t have bothered with the theatricals that guaranteed a bed beside Leon if he’d known that. Osric seems to know it, too.
“I’ll have my liniment back before you use it all, thank you Sire.”
Leon didn’t always sound this condescending, did he? “Too late,” Arthur says blandly before getting under his blanket.
Leon mutters something that carries the distinct tone of an insult. He truly dislikes everything about me. Arthur pretends not to notice, or care.
“You earned the greater portion, I suppose. Hopefully the camp apothecary has something suitable.” Arthur hears Leon open the tent and pause. “…Well fought Sire,” he says simply, and leaves.
Arthur folds the blanket down from his face with a frown and wonders what he meant by that.
|~~~|
The small wooden pot sits on his neatly rolled cape. It isn’t empty after all, which is a relief because the only emollient the apothecary has left is a single purpose concoction blended specifically for fraternising. Leon isn’t carrying any of that about his person whilst sleeping a candle-width from the King’s son.
“Don’t expect me to apologise for lying about your liniment,” Arthur declares against his makeshift pillow.
“Wouldn’t dream of asking a mighty Prince to humble himself-”
Arthur rolls over wearing the snide bullying expression that makes Leon want to lock him in the stocks and throw horse manure at him until his outside aspect is as ugly as the inside. “I’m supposed to use my rank to make you behave to my standards Sir Leon, not this inverted mind-fraternisation.”
“No other form of fraternisation will take place in this tent any time soon.”
“I’ll just disobey my father, your King, and take my blankets outside so you can fraternise to your heart’s content.”
“I see. You make the King’s subordinate appear a fool, and I bear the brunt because I’m your subordinate?”
“Must you turn everything into a moral lesson?”
“Only until you learn some morals, Sire.”
“You’re worse than Morgana, Father and Sir Geoffrey combined.”
“Perhaps you should take the hint,” Leon murmurs and hopes Arthur didn’t hear it.
They angrily lean across to blow out the candle at the same time, but neither does. Leon is no longer sure who this young man is. His face hasn’t changed, but sometimes…
“What must I do to gain your notice?” Arthur asks without warning. “Not for my fighting skills or how quickly I dismantle and restring a crossbow. How can I become your equal?”
“You are the Prince of Camelot. I am a Knight. I have attained the highest rank available to one in my circumstance.”
“As have I,” Arthur replies with a slight exhalation of frustration. He didn’t mean to be amusing but Leon finds it so, nonetheless. “A smile - never thought I’d cause one of those without embarrassing myself.”
“Why is my opinion more important than say, Owain’s?” Leon didn’t mean to ask that, but it’s out there now.
Arthur’s profile is increasingly enticing as the candlelight flickers and begins to fail. “Who says it is - apart from Osric.” Arthur shrugs as he briefly turns a smile Leon’s way.
“Of course it isn’t. Forgive my presumption.” Leon means it in jest.
This time when Arthur looks in his direction his expression is serious. “Do you fraternise Sir Leon?”
“I haven’t in the past.”
“Would you? It seems rather…”
“That would depend on the, acquaintance, with which a man chose…” Leon hopes he can satisfy Arthur’s curiosity without making his personal desire obvious.
“How is it decided, do you think? Does he of higher rank proposition the other or do they kind of, fall into it?”
“I haven’t thought about it before.”
“I’d never heard of such a thing before. Well, not of it being socially accepted. Didn’t someone’s second son have his,” Arthur makes a euphemistic beheading motion with his hand against a wrist, “for …” Neither knows how to fill the pause with words and Leon is surprised when Arthur leans close enough to kiss. “…this?” Arthur disguises the question in a breath. Leon answers that he doesn’t care, by silently making the possible kiss a reality.
|~~~|
A first kiss-the reward received by any Prince at war’s end, in every ballad sung by every bard. Usually this first kiss is granted by whichever fair and useless Princess said Prince rescued from deadly or virtuous peril, never a handsome Knight unable to shave for a week due to leading said Prince in battle. None will compare this bristly contact to the brush of apple blossoms against Arthur’s lips, and certainly not in song.
But Arthur prefers this version of the classic tale.
His heart beats heavily, though not with a pace associated with fear or warfare. He has spent a week surrounded by anticipation, desperation, mud, blood, and death. This desperate need for contact with life leads him to understand why some men took similar action earlier than others. They have lived through this before and so take store of every sensation and emotion that makes them human because war is a parasite, sucking people dry and leaving empty husks if they can’t escape its clutches in time.
Why hasn’t a man like Sir Leon done this before? There must be many willing to share his tent.
“Both parties need to be willing,” Leon explains when Arthur asks. This second kiss differs from the first. They have chosen each other.
|~~~|
Camelot’s Prince is meticulously shaven as a rule but there has been no time for such luxuries, every man kept a hand by his hilt during the impromptu entertainment in case of attack. The stubble above Arthur’s lip and on his chin is unexpectedly rough. Leon wonders how uncomfortable his own scruff must feel to Arthur before succumbing to the warmth of their tightening embrace.
The son of a King would never descend to full fraternisation, so Leon feels no need to restrain his actions. Arthur will do that for him.
…Except, Arthur doesn’t.
|~~~|
Arthur has been shielded from certain aspects of the world, just as Morgana has. Enforced kinship has led to many almost-experimentations with Morgana but beneath curiosity lurked an instinct that crossing certain lines would be wrong. He feels no such hesitation now. No-one but he and Leon will know.
He has spent a lifetime being dressed, measured, and - when he was younger - washed by servants. Sometimes a touch affected him differently than others. But Leon’s hands make Arthur forget everything else, as though he has been numb all his life and his skin is learning to register pressure and motion. For instance, Leon’s thumbs softly stroke Arthur’s abdomen while other fingers curve to rest at Arthur’s hips. Arthur gasps and fidgets in time with each movement, then moans and arches slightly when those hands perform the same actions beneath the cloth. He kisses Leon again and lifts his shirt. Raising his shoulders to remove it prompts Leon to lean back with that look of approval Arthur has sought since his training began.
Leon bends to rest his face against the hair of Arthur’s chest. Arthur’s arms wrap around him as he begins to press his lips here, there, across, higher and then lower, lower. Without thinking, Arthur rubs his clothed erection against the satisfying weight of Leon’s chest. He stops rutting and carefully sits forward…
|~~~|
This is more than Leon expected to be honest. He has no right to be disappointed when Arthur stops grinding against him.
Hands scrabble at the sides of his shirt and Leon lifts his gaze. Arthur’s expression makes Leon’s breath deepen and shake. Without looking away, he removes his shirt. Arthur’s eyes and hands move over exposed skin. Leon echoes Arthur’s involuntary sounds. Their mouths meet again as bare chests are pulled together.
Briefly, for the shortest moment, Leon wonders if perhaps he should be on his back beneath Arthur. They move against each other with equal urgency, encouraging, enjoying and exploring every action and reaction. Coincidentally, they reach into each other’s trousers at the same time, panting stuttering breaths against half-open mouths as first contact is made with another’s manhood.
|~~~|
Arthur copies Leon’s hand movements, because what he’s doing feels wonderful. If both parties must be willing, then it follows that both parties must be satisfied.
The scrape of clothes between them soon becomes ridiculous. Arthur remedies that with characteristic impatience, twisting onto his side to remove the woven constraints. Leon curves behind him and a hand reaches over his hip to take firmer hold of his dick. Arthur’s shoulders press back as his hips push forward. His spine shivers from neck to tailbone, savouring this freedom of movement. Leon kisses the side of his neck then rasps a bristled cheek against his nape to the same rhythm as he rubs against Arthur’s bare backside.
|~~~|
The thinning layers of cloth between them are agony but Leon is not so lost in sensation that he forgets who he’s pulling off and rutting against. Arthur’s encouragement robs conscience of its power and the disparity in their stations adds an element of unreality.
My future King is fraternising with my hand. And he feels incredible.
But Leon isn’t game to remove the final barrier between them. Should Arthur choose to do so then, well, Leon can hardly say no to his Prince.
|~~~|
This is becoming unbearable. Arthur moves his top leg against Leon’s to suggest now is a suitable time to be naked.
Leon interprets it differently, letting go of Arthur’s dick, slipping that hand under Arthur’s leg and establishing a possessive hold on Arthur’s balls. Trousers are forgotten. Attention focuses purely on the superb pleasure between his legs. The pressure of Leon’s hand increases and shifts as he moulds, rolls, tugs and stretches. It must feel good to him too, because their groans are similar in volume and tone.
When Arthur gains enough control over his hand, he reaches back and pulls at Leon’s trousers. Leon doesn’t let go of Arthur to take them off, although his grip eases dramatically. There’s a nudge against one bum cheek. Then, after a brief absence of contact, Leon’s hand is on him again and a long, rigid heat warms him to the core as it slides between his thighs. Arthur’s hand moves down and presses the source of this heat flush against his most sensitive skin. A damp dab beneath his balls sends a thrill of anticipation through him. He angles his hips to make the friction more pleasurable, as though it isn’t intense enough. Arthur craves more.
|~~~|
The inviting angle of Arthur’s arse gives Leon cause to pause. One arm stretches in search of the liniment and the other rests nervously across Arthur.
“I’ve heard this hurts.” Leon seeks permission to continue with this carefully announced wording.
“Chainmail hurts.” Permission granted.
“If you change your mind,” he reassures Arthur even as he coats a finger.
“Have you ever known me to change my mind?” Arthur’s bodily movement is as welcoming as his voice.
“This isn’t your duty.” Leon gently, teasingly strokes puckered skin with muscle relaxing balm.
“Nor is it yours.” Arthur ends this statement with a gasp as Leon’s fingertip makes the first breach.
|~~~|
The sting doesn’t last long. Doubt lingers, conflicting with desire. Desire wins.
“Continue,” he says with as much characteristic authority as he can muster.
Leon chuckles against his back. “Yes Sire.”
Arthur relaxes with an involuntary smile, and pleasure swiftly conquers pain.
Curiosity leads him to touch with Leon and they explore together. Soon there are two Knightly digits as well as one of his own inside him. Overwhelmed by anticipation, Arthur provides verbal as well as physical encouragement and then one by one, their fingers withdraw.
There is a pause. Arthur silently hopes Leon is applying some of that balm. The sticky, clumsy bump against his bottom before finding entry puts his fears to rest. He has yet to make a fool of himself.
He didn’t expect another sting. But this shape is different, as is the angle of penetration. Pleasure assumes command more rapidly over pain this time and they move together. He feels so full yet there is nothing horrible or confronting in the sensation. Leon’s retreat is more distressing, and thankfully short-lived.
|~~~|
Three slow, languid pushes forward are all Leon can manage before urgently thrusting and bucking as deep into Arthur as he can reach. Decadent heat presses against his manhood from every direction but it is friction that provides the greatest satisfaction. He listens carefully to Arthur’s groans and moans, making sure none communicate pain or regret.
Keep, keep going their bodily percussion chants, building to a crescendo before a startled exclamation begins below Leon’s navel and erupts from his throat. His physical climax is not over so quickly, which seems to please Arthur.
“Do you need…?” Leon asks in a hushed pant and is grateful when Arthur guides his hand.
|~~~|
His dick hangs stupid and heavy to the left, its tip against the blanket he sleeps on. The rub of wool against sensitive, inflamed skin teases and distracts from the movement so deep inside, without detracting from it. His limbs are also heavy and useless as Leon hurries toward their destination. The race itself is magnificent, although Arthur knows he will never catch up. Once Leon crosses the finish line he generously offers Arthur a figurative hand over and Arthur accepts it literally.
He takes Leon’s hand, brings it over his hip and together they help him reach the end.
Fulfilment of ejaculating in Leon’s hand transcends the rather grisly withdrawal from behind. They wallow in the warmth of gratification before turning their attention to eliminating the evidence.
“I will take your blankets Sire, and wash them. Please rest on mine.” Leon’s blush begins at his chest and he has difficulty meeting Arthur’s eye. “Should anyone ask, I can explain that you have suddenly fallen ill.”
A good man could lose more than his noble rank for bedding the son of his king. Father must never find out. Arthur knows this can never happen again. He grasps Sir Leon’s wrist with a reassuring hand.
“Thank you Sir Leon.” I carry our secret to the grave.
“And you Sire.” As will I.
Arthur nods and lets Leon get about his business.
|~~~|
Leon drapes the freshened blankets over rope by a fire far from the King’s pavilion, trying not to avoid the eye of any he passes. Such behaviour would declare his guilt, destroy Arthur’s reputation, and humiliate the King.
What have I done?
He returns to the tent, deep in thoughts of leaving Camelot, and finds Arthur sitting between his blankets.
“Do you think others are made to feel the same shame you do?” Arthur asks rather formally once Leon ties the entry closed again.
“I feel remorse my Lord, not shame.”
“As do I,” Arthur admits.
Their eyes hold for a moment. “Sire…” Leon is effectively shushed by the simple turning back of a blanket corner.
“Know that I would never taint what passed between us by threatening to tell my Fath…the King.”
“Know that I would never risk your reputation by breathing word of what we shared to another soul.”
Mutually assured, they set about trying to get into comfortable sleeping positions.
“Is it traditional to …kiss …or something after fraternising?” Arthur asks quietly.
“That would depend upon the acquaintance,” Leon teases gently before kissing him goodnight.
|~~~|
Arthur’s confidence increases as they approach the castle. None in Father’s army suspect a thing, or some fuss would have been made long before they reached Camelot’s gates.
|~~~|
Uther attaches his seal to Geoffrey of Monmouth’s records of the recent warfare and hands them back. “Your plan regarding the sleeping arrangements for my son,” he begins.
“Suitable, your Majesty?” Geoffrey enquires politely.
“Entirely.” The young men in question now focus entirely on training rather than each other when either takes the field. Uther questions Geoffrey. “How is it you were so confident that fraternising would not make their obsessions worse?”
“Once they realised such passion compromised their duty to Camelot-”
Uther waves his hand impatiently. “I seek evidence, not more theory.”
“It worked for me on my first campaign, your Majesty.”
Uther dismisses Geoffrey after begging forgiveness for his impropriety. Then remembers the words of his own father: Geoffrey of Monmouth is one of my most trusted companions. Why, on our very first trek into battle, his uncle made us share a tent… hrmph, that’s enough said about that.
Author: shutupeccles
Fandom: Merlin. Therefore characters belong to BBC and Shine, not to me.
Pairing: Sir Leon/Arthur
Rated: R Words: 5300
Be warned: Sir Osric (mentioned among the dead in 3.01) performs the strangest wartime drag act known to man, 3000+ words before naughty bits
Summary: Freshly knighted Leon is appointed Arthur’s mentor and tent-mate on the Prince’s first gruelling campaign. The predictable happens after some moral dithering and inconvenient war stuff.
A/N: background detail for Friendly Vengeance as politely requested by kattale (Sorry about the detail:'detail' ratio, plot insisted on happening. Forgive?)
Three months before Merlin came to Camelot…
“Someone has an admirer.” Sir Osric’s low voice carries a hint of humour and Leon drops his guard. The momentary lapse allows his younger charge to trip Leon and pin him on his back. Prince Arthur kicks Leon’s sword away and removes his own helmet to positively beam triumph into his fallen opponent’s face.
“Hand up, Sir Leon?” The Prince gloats as he offers unnecessary assistance.
Good thing he’s a shallow, callous little prick beneath that gorgeous golden grin, or Leon would be mesmerised by how annoyingly beautiful he is and do something to humiliate them both. Instead, Leon scowls as he gets to his feet, ignoring the extended arm, and brushes dirt of his backside as he reclaims the sword. Blue eyes harden slightly and the Prince begins to adopt the cold distance so abhorrent in his father’s stance. Leon’s reaction has caused the worst kind of offence.
“You took proper advantage of an opponent’s weakness, swiftly and efficiently. Well done Sire.” Hopefully that will placate the royal ego and save me from the stocks.
Prince Arthur beams again, with pride this time, and Sir Osric chortles with some of the older Knights. Tightness returns to royal blue eyes and he looks away from Leon with a flush to his neck that isn’t a result of their sparring. Leon’s eyes widen as he understands. Osric's earlier barb wasn’t aimed at me.
|~~~|
It is not a crush.
Osric and his nonsense!
Friendly rivalry encourages all to be their best.
There are worse Knights to emulate in Camelot, Osric for one.
Still, Arthur cannot help analysing the sting caused by Leon’s disapproval.
|~~~|
“Arthur will be housed in one of the ordinary tents. Assassins sent by our enemies will aim directly for the royal pavilion. Sir Leon?” King Uther directly addresses the newest addition to his army, startling Leon from thoughts of how tedious he finds this strategy side of warfare.
“Sire?”
“I place my son in your care.”
“Perhaps Sir Pellinor or Bors…”
“Freshly knighted and already you question my judgement?”
“No Sire. Merely…”
“Arthur will feel I doubt his skill at arms. Then he will begin to doubt it himself. Besides, the on-field rivalry between the two of you drives him to impress…” The King continues listing his reasons, oblivious to Osric smirking over his shoulder.
Leon nods acceptance of King Uther’s orders in the council, but once in the stables he turns on Osric. “In future, kindly spare our King’s honour by aiming your juvenile mockery at me, rather than his heir.”
“An heir has yet to be named, if you recall Sir Leon.”
“Who besides Arthur would he name? Lady Morgana?” Leon asks with a quick smile at his own joke.
“Gods help us if that one becomes Queen,” Pellinor declares, making a sign of superstitious protection against his chest. Other Knights join the debate and the matter of Leon housing Arthur in his tent forgotten.
|~~~|
The crowd in the King’s pavilion is ridiculous. Arthur stands by his father’s elbow, arms crossed over his chest, and wearing the sternest expression of boredom he can maintain with any degree of success. Eventually Uther peers beneath his arm to see his son’s aspect remains unchanged. He exhales in defeat before lifting his head and clearing the council.
“What is it Arthur?” Uther asks wearily.
“Do you place such a low value on my life that you’ll house me with Leon on this trip rather than one of your senior Knights?”
“Sir Leon is as capable as any other.”
“And I am not capable of defending myself?” Regretfully, this outburst makes Arthur sound like Morgana in one of her moods. Oh well, it works for her…
“You stood there like a stuffed bear to bother me with something as trivial as this?” Father asks in disbelief. “Further bouts of immaturity will see you sent home! As a member of my army, you shall juggle a basket of kittens should I give the order, immediately and without question. You are sharing a tent with Sir Leon for the duration of this campaign and that is final!”
“Yes Father, sorry Father.” Arthur bows meekly and backs out of the pavilion, waiting until the council reconvenes before celebrating his victory with a sly smile. Now Osric can spread conjecture all he likes. Father will never believe it.
|~~~|
Prince Arthur is surrounded by the band of aspiring knights he normally leads in mischief, and Sir Leon has been given command of this royal nursery.
The first foray into disputed territory consists of trudging through sludge and destroying ambushes. Orders and intelligence are communicated through whispers and hand gestures. Cold meals are eaten on the march. There is no opportunity for idle conversation.
Fears of being ignored or humiliated by this untried group of spoiled nobles dissolve more rapidly than the mist they travel through. Arthur’s deference to Leon’s military seniority ensures his peers efficiently follow orders. His focus equals that of seasoned campaigners. Leon sees a serious, responsible young man in place of the familiar pampered bully. It gives him hope for Camelot’s future.
|~~~|
Dreams of battlefields, adventure, and glory are quickly put to rest. Arthur hopes his mind will follow suit as he and Leon arrange their bedrolls in the tiny tent. He’s utterly exhausted. The temptation to fall on his bed in full armour is stronger than his willpower.
A steadying hand on his shoulder prevents him making that very mistake.
“Allow me Sire.”
Arthur lacks the energy to argue as Leon expertly performs the duties of a squire. Once the heavy mail is lifted from his shoulders, Arthur expresses his gratitude through a yawn. “So sore!” he complains as he almost collapses into the blanketed sanctuary of bed.
Leon chuckles, hinting that tomorrow will be worse. Arthur falls asleep before he can see if his admirable tent-mate sleeps naked.
|~~~|
Slight movement of swords between them suggests Arthur is awake. It takes a moment for the sounds that disturbed Arthur to register. Oh, he doesn’t know about that.
“Nothing to concern yourself with Sire,” Leon carefully avoids drawing further attention to the activity in an adjacent tent.
“But…”
“Such things occur away from home.” Confusion in the darker shadows of Arthur’s face make Leon embarrassed on his behalf. “I will mention…” gods know what “…to the King and he will inform you as necessary. You must rest for tomorrow. Trust me Sire.”
Luckily Arthur does, and returns to bed.
|~~~|
“Ah yes, that.” Father looks at Arthur thoughtfully after Sir Leon’s subtle murmur during breakfast. He waves all but Prince and Leon from the pavilion, pacing carefully with both hands behind his back, deep in thought. “It is not uncommon…” Father begins, then shakes his head and begins again. “Fraternising between soldiers-”
“Is that all that was? Good lord, I fraternise all the time.” Arthur stops. Leon’s expression implies Arthur grasped the wrong end of the sword on this one, while Father’s bellows that he better not fraternise, on penalty of death. “We aren’t talking about sharing a tankard of mead between friends here, are we?”
Leon is quick to suppress his sympathetic amusement. The twitch of his mouth as he tries to keep control of his mirth holds Arthur’s attention. “Do you ‘fraternise’?” Arthur asks his father, then realises that did not provide a welcome distraction.
“Get out, and take your chortling nursemaid with you.”
|~~~|
The second day is much like the first, with the occasional skirmish added to trudging through sludge. One of Arthur’s companions complains loudly of sore feet.
“We can lop them off and leave you for enemy scouts to nurse back to health,” Arthur counters briskly. There are no more complaints. Not until bedtime anyway.
“My feet hurt all the way to my backside!” Arthur whinges into his rolled cape.
Leon is too preoccupied to chuckle. He juggles a wooden pot of liniment from hand to hand before tossing it beside Arthur’s elbow.
“Can’t you do it?” Arthur suggests gruffly.
“I’m not a prostitute,” Leon grumbles when he’d much rather ask ‘how far up would you like me to go?’
“Do you fraternise?” Arthur asks with seemingly innocent curiosity.
“I’m not a prostitute,” Leon says again and this time they both chuckle.
Arthur aims a cheeky smile Leon’s way. “Then I promise not to pay you.”
With an involuntary grin, Leon throws his bundled cape at Arthur’s bum.
“Ow,” Arthur fusses and then sighs roughly. “Tomorrow’s going to be worse, isn’t it?”
“Much.”
“Bugger.”
“Not tonight.” Leon is appalled by this audacity, until Arthur laughs, yawns and closes his eyes. It seems he misjudged his Prince. Maybe Arthur is neither as shallow nor callous as Leon first thought.
|~~~|
New recruits long for the good old days of trudging mindlessly through sludge before sun sets on the third day. Many have made their first kill and the camp is full of euphoria, tears, and vomiting as the men comes to terms with dealing death.
Arthur travels through the ranks in a separate direction to his father, offering congratulations and commiserations depending upon each individual’s perspective. Sir Leon is his silent bodyguard, eyes showing approval above a stern expression, or standing nearby with back turned if Arthur needs to use the pit.
“Can you imagine the horror of having killed so many you no longer recall the first?” Arthur grinds the butt of each palm into an eye as he asks. “Or would it be worse to relive that feeling each time? Which is the more human response - jubilation or shame?”
“Remembering that our foes are men as we are is both blessing and curse. It can stop us committing atrocities, or make us vulnerable to their deceptions. Both sides take and lose cherished members of a family, regardless.”
Arthur rolls onto his side to better appreciate Sir Leon’s solemn profile. He wants to ask how the battles Leon has fought affect him, but that seems a dangerously personal question. So instead he asks a stupid one. “Am I automatically Sir Arthur because I’m son of the King or must I earn it like any other nobleman?”
“Would you like the title to arrive on your breakfast plate?” A line of disappointment forms above Leon’s nose.
“If I wanted to be made fun of I would have asked Father. He expected me to know and be all from birth. Sir Geoffrey’s answer to everything is “Look in a book” without pointing out which book, or indeed which section of the library to begin looking in! Morgana’s no better. They’re determined to make me feel an imbecile, as are you apparently.” Arthur turns away from the humiliation of that last admission.
“Sire-”
“We’d better get to sleep if this war’s going to worsen day by day.”
|~~~|
Leon watches the rigid set of Arthur’s posture relax as the Prince slowly finds sleep. Metal armour may sit by the opening of their tent for now, but a heftier weight is permanently borne by those young shoulders.
Perhaps the odd spot of mischief makes his responsibilities easier to bear. Unfortunately, any such distractions must wait for the journey home. Leon’s life depends upon Arthur’s safety.
|~~~|
Days four through ten are almost identical to the third, except with less jubilation and weeping, and far more vomiting. One fifth of the army remains in camp, indisposed and under guard. Several men die of infection or dehydration before the sun reaches its zenith on the eleventh day.
There is talk of retreat among the less experienced. Despair settles among them when they learn the fighting will continue. Hardened warriors share proven methods of boosting morale. One favourite remains as popular as when it was performed for Beltane three years ago. Sir Osric holds bowls to his chest to represent female bosoms while five other knights become a living skirt by bending over and holding each other’s shoulders around his waist. They clumsily twirl about Osric as his hips swing side to side and he sings the falsetto tale of a noblewoman constantly fighting off lusty suitors. Other men under his command take turns ‘pursuing’ the noblewoman, only to be bumped away by one of the bottoms forming her dress.
Arthur sits beside the King. His father’s laughter enhances his own enjoyment. Uther stands to applaud as Osric and his skirt make an awkward bow, laughing loudly when they topple over.
“Gracious Sir Osric! Some may fraternise with one man in the field, but you require five?” Arthur calls out, forgetting himself. Luckily Father laughs louder than ever and wipes a mirthful tear from one eye as he claps his son on the back.
“And that, gentleman, signifies the end of tonight’s entertainment.” Their King bids his army goodnight with a wave of one hand and retires to his pavilion.
Arthur hurries to Leon’s tent before Osric seeks retribution, and finds Leon already there.
“I thought it best not to give Osric opportunity to place something in your bed, lest it end up in mine by mistake.”
“Sorry…”
“Off the battlefield you are in a position of authority second only to the King. Others will mimic your behaviour without the benefit of your rank to protect them. Next time think before opening your mouth! …Sire.” Sir Leon’s disapproval fills the tent and threatens to suffocate them both. “The King enjoyed your comment at least,” Leon adds but it provides no comfort to Arthur’s wounded pride.
He’d thought, after how he conducted himself on the battlefield and with all the frivolity this evening wrought so far, but he clearly thought wrong. He can never win his mentor’s admiration, so shall stop trying to become more than another pupil.
|~~~|
Camelot’s foe sounds retreat at some point between midday and sunset on the fifteenth day. A cheer rises from those draped in red and gold. Surely they’ll begin to march home before nightfall!
No such luck. Still, with their enemies turning tail there is no reason for Arthur not to sleep in the royal pavilion, where he belongs, instead of Leon’s meagre tent, where he obviously has no wish to be. The Prince needs to learn when he’s reprimanded for the good of the kingdom and stop behaving like the pampered, pompous prick that Leon always knew he was … thought he was … assumed he was. The past four days have been dreadful because Leon knows Arthur shows potential to be far more than a royal bully, but refuses to live up to it.
|~~~|
It’s almost enough to make Arthur send Morgana on campaign in his place next time. Not allowed to carry his weight as part of a scouting patrol or merely sit sentry by one of the campfires, forced to continue sleeping under the disapproving gaze of Sir Leon of Moral High-ground in case this retreat is a feint and assassins lurk ready to slaughter King and Prince with a single arrow or something equally improbable.
“I have no wish to be here anymore than you want me here, so shut up,” Arthur grumbles as he enters the tent. Osric deliberately let slip how ardently Leon tried to sway the King’s position regarding this arrangement. Arthur wouldn’t have bothered with the theatricals that guaranteed a bed beside Leon if he’d known that. Osric seems to know it, too.
“I’ll have my liniment back before you use it all, thank you Sire.”
Leon didn’t always sound this condescending, did he? “Too late,” Arthur says blandly before getting under his blanket.
Leon mutters something that carries the distinct tone of an insult. He truly dislikes everything about me. Arthur pretends not to notice, or care.
“You earned the greater portion, I suppose. Hopefully the camp apothecary has something suitable.” Arthur hears Leon open the tent and pause. “…Well fought Sire,” he says simply, and leaves.
Arthur folds the blanket down from his face with a frown and wonders what he meant by that.
|~~~|
The small wooden pot sits on his neatly rolled cape. It isn’t empty after all, which is a relief because the only emollient the apothecary has left is a single purpose concoction blended specifically for fraternising. Leon isn’t carrying any of that about his person whilst sleeping a candle-width from the King’s son.
“Don’t expect me to apologise for lying about your liniment,” Arthur declares against his makeshift pillow.
“Wouldn’t dream of asking a mighty Prince to humble himself-”
Arthur rolls over wearing the snide bullying expression that makes Leon want to lock him in the stocks and throw horse manure at him until his outside aspect is as ugly as the inside. “I’m supposed to use my rank to make you behave to my standards Sir Leon, not this inverted mind-fraternisation.”
“No other form of fraternisation will take place in this tent any time soon.”
“I’ll just disobey my father, your King, and take my blankets outside so you can fraternise to your heart’s content.”
“I see. You make the King’s subordinate appear a fool, and I bear the brunt because I’m your subordinate?”
“Must you turn everything into a moral lesson?”
“Only until you learn some morals, Sire.”
“You’re worse than Morgana, Father and Sir Geoffrey combined.”
“Perhaps you should take the hint,” Leon murmurs and hopes Arthur didn’t hear it.
They angrily lean across to blow out the candle at the same time, but neither does. Leon is no longer sure who this young man is. His face hasn’t changed, but sometimes…
“What must I do to gain your notice?” Arthur asks without warning. “Not for my fighting skills or how quickly I dismantle and restring a crossbow. How can I become your equal?”
“You are the Prince of Camelot. I am a Knight. I have attained the highest rank available to one in my circumstance.”
“As have I,” Arthur replies with a slight exhalation of frustration. He didn’t mean to be amusing but Leon finds it so, nonetheless. “A smile - never thought I’d cause one of those without embarrassing myself.”
“Why is my opinion more important than say, Owain’s?” Leon didn’t mean to ask that, but it’s out there now.
Arthur’s profile is increasingly enticing as the candlelight flickers and begins to fail. “Who says it is - apart from Osric.” Arthur shrugs as he briefly turns a smile Leon’s way.
“Of course it isn’t. Forgive my presumption.” Leon means it in jest.
This time when Arthur looks in his direction his expression is serious. “Do you fraternise Sir Leon?”
“I haven’t in the past.”
“Would you? It seems rather…”
“That would depend on the, acquaintance, with which a man chose…” Leon hopes he can satisfy Arthur’s curiosity without making his personal desire obvious.
“How is it decided, do you think? Does he of higher rank proposition the other or do they kind of, fall into it?”
“I haven’t thought about it before.”
“I’d never heard of such a thing before. Well, not of it being socially accepted. Didn’t someone’s second son have his,” Arthur makes a euphemistic beheading motion with his hand against a wrist, “for …” Neither knows how to fill the pause with words and Leon is surprised when Arthur leans close enough to kiss. “…this?” Arthur disguises the question in a breath. Leon answers that he doesn’t care, by silently making the possible kiss a reality.
|~~~|
A first kiss-the reward received by any Prince at war’s end, in every ballad sung by every bard. Usually this first kiss is granted by whichever fair and useless Princess said Prince rescued from deadly or virtuous peril, never a handsome Knight unable to shave for a week due to leading said Prince in battle. None will compare this bristly contact to the brush of apple blossoms against Arthur’s lips, and certainly not in song.
But Arthur prefers this version of the classic tale.
His heart beats heavily, though not with a pace associated with fear or warfare. He has spent a week surrounded by anticipation, desperation, mud, blood, and death. This desperate need for contact with life leads him to understand why some men took similar action earlier than others. They have lived through this before and so take store of every sensation and emotion that makes them human because war is a parasite, sucking people dry and leaving empty husks if they can’t escape its clutches in time.
Why hasn’t a man like Sir Leon done this before? There must be many willing to share his tent.
“Both parties need to be willing,” Leon explains when Arthur asks. This second kiss differs from the first. They have chosen each other.
|~~~|
Camelot’s Prince is meticulously shaven as a rule but there has been no time for such luxuries, every man kept a hand by his hilt during the impromptu entertainment in case of attack. The stubble above Arthur’s lip and on his chin is unexpectedly rough. Leon wonders how uncomfortable his own scruff must feel to Arthur before succumbing to the warmth of their tightening embrace.
The son of a King would never descend to full fraternisation, so Leon feels no need to restrain his actions. Arthur will do that for him.
…Except, Arthur doesn’t.
|~~~|
Arthur has been shielded from certain aspects of the world, just as Morgana has. Enforced kinship has led to many almost-experimentations with Morgana but beneath curiosity lurked an instinct that crossing certain lines would be wrong. He feels no such hesitation now. No-one but he and Leon will know.
He has spent a lifetime being dressed, measured, and - when he was younger - washed by servants. Sometimes a touch affected him differently than others. But Leon’s hands make Arthur forget everything else, as though he has been numb all his life and his skin is learning to register pressure and motion. For instance, Leon’s thumbs softly stroke Arthur’s abdomen while other fingers curve to rest at Arthur’s hips. Arthur gasps and fidgets in time with each movement, then moans and arches slightly when those hands perform the same actions beneath the cloth. He kisses Leon again and lifts his shirt. Raising his shoulders to remove it prompts Leon to lean back with that look of approval Arthur has sought since his training began.
Leon bends to rest his face against the hair of Arthur’s chest. Arthur’s arms wrap around him as he begins to press his lips here, there, across, higher and then lower, lower. Without thinking, Arthur rubs his clothed erection against the satisfying weight of Leon’s chest. He stops rutting and carefully sits forward…
|~~~|
This is more than Leon expected to be honest. He has no right to be disappointed when Arthur stops grinding against him.
Hands scrabble at the sides of his shirt and Leon lifts his gaze. Arthur’s expression makes Leon’s breath deepen and shake. Without looking away, he removes his shirt. Arthur’s eyes and hands move over exposed skin. Leon echoes Arthur’s involuntary sounds. Their mouths meet again as bare chests are pulled together.
Briefly, for the shortest moment, Leon wonders if perhaps he should be on his back beneath Arthur. They move against each other with equal urgency, encouraging, enjoying and exploring every action and reaction. Coincidentally, they reach into each other’s trousers at the same time, panting stuttering breaths against half-open mouths as first contact is made with another’s manhood.
|~~~|
Arthur copies Leon’s hand movements, because what he’s doing feels wonderful. If both parties must be willing, then it follows that both parties must be satisfied.
The scrape of clothes between them soon becomes ridiculous. Arthur remedies that with characteristic impatience, twisting onto his side to remove the woven constraints. Leon curves behind him and a hand reaches over his hip to take firmer hold of his dick. Arthur’s shoulders press back as his hips push forward. His spine shivers from neck to tailbone, savouring this freedom of movement. Leon kisses the side of his neck then rasps a bristled cheek against his nape to the same rhythm as he rubs against Arthur’s bare backside.
|~~~|
The thinning layers of cloth between them are agony but Leon is not so lost in sensation that he forgets who he’s pulling off and rutting against. Arthur’s encouragement robs conscience of its power and the disparity in their stations adds an element of unreality.
My future King is fraternising with my hand. And he feels incredible.
But Leon isn’t game to remove the final barrier between them. Should Arthur choose to do so then, well, Leon can hardly say no to his Prince.
|~~~|
This is becoming unbearable. Arthur moves his top leg against Leon’s to suggest now is a suitable time to be naked.
Leon interprets it differently, letting go of Arthur’s dick, slipping that hand under Arthur’s leg and establishing a possessive hold on Arthur’s balls. Trousers are forgotten. Attention focuses purely on the superb pleasure between his legs. The pressure of Leon’s hand increases and shifts as he moulds, rolls, tugs and stretches. It must feel good to him too, because their groans are similar in volume and tone.
When Arthur gains enough control over his hand, he reaches back and pulls at Leon’s trousers. Leon doesn’t let go of Arthur to take them off, although his grip eases dramatically. There’s a nudge against one bum cheek. Then, after a brief absence of contact, Leon’s hand is on him again and a long, rigid heat warms him to the core as it slides between his thighs. Arthur’s hand moves down and presses the source of this heat flush against his most sensitive skin. A damp dab beneath his balls sends a thrill of anticipation through him. He angles his hips to make the friction more pleasurable, as though it isn’t intense enough. Arthur craves more.
|~~~|
The inviting angle of Arthur’s arse gives Leon cause to pause. One arm stretches in search of the liniment and the other rests nervously across Arthur.
“I’ve heard this hurts.” Leon seeks permission to continue with this carefully announced wording.
“Chainmail hurts.” Permission granted.
“If you change your mind,” he reassures Arthur even as he coats a finger.
“Have you ever known me to change my mind?” Arthur’s bodily movement is as welcoming as his voice.
“This isn’t your duty.” Leon gently, teasingly strokes puckered skin with muscle relaxing balm.
“Nor is it yours.” Arthur ends this statement with a gasp as Leon’s fingertip makes the first breach.
|~~~|
The sting doesn’t last long. Doubt lingers, conflicting with desire. Desire wins.
“Continue,” he says with as much characteristic authority as he can muster.
Leon chuckles against his back. “Yes Sire.”
Arthur relaxes with an involuntary smile, and pleasure swiftly conquers pain.
Curiosity leads him to touch with Leon and they explore together. Soon there are two Knightly digits as well as one of his own inside him. Overwhelmed by anticipation, Arthur provides verbal as well as physical encouragement and then one by one, their fingers withdraw.
There is a pause. Arthur silently hopes Leon is applying some of that balm. The sticky, clumsy bump against his bottom before finding entry puts his fears to rest. He has yet to make a fool of himself.
He didn’t expect another sting. But this shape is different, as is the angle of penetration. Pleasure assumes command more rapidly over pain this time and they move together. He feels so full yet there is nothing horrible or confronting in the sensation. Leon’s retreat is more distressing, and thankfully short-lived.
|~~~|
Three slow, languid pushes forward are all Leon can manage before urgently thrusting and bucking as deep into Arthur as he can reach. Decadent heat presses against his manhood from every direction but it is friction that provides the greatest satisfaction. He listens carefully to Arthur’s groans and moans, making sure none communicate pain or regret.
Keep, keep going their bodily percussion chants, building to a crescendo before a startled exclamation begins below Leon’s navel and erupts from his throat. His physical climax is not over so quickly, which seems to please Arthur.
“Do you need…?” Leon asks in a hushed pant and is grateful when Arthur guides his hand.
|~~~|
His dick hangs stupid and heavy to the left, its tip against the blanket he sleeps on. The rub of wool against sensitive, inflamed skin teases and distracts from the movement so deep inside, without detracting from it. His limbs are also heavy and useless as Leon hurries toward their destination. The race itself is magnificent, although Arthur knows he will never catch up. Once Leon crosses the finish line he generously offers Arthur a figurative hand over and Arthur accepts it literally.
He takes Leon’s hand, brings it over his hip and together they help him reach the end.
Fulfilment of ejaculating in Leon’s hand transcends the rather grisly withdrawal from behind. They wallow in the warmth of gratification before turning their attention to eliminating the evidence.
“I will take your blankets Sire, and wash them. Please rest on mine.” Leon’s blush begins at his chest and he has difficulty meeting Arthur’s eye. “Should anyone ask, I can explain that you have suddenly fallen ill.”
A good man could lose more than his noble rank for bedding the son of his king. Father must never find out. Arthur knows this can never happen again. He grasps Sir Leon’s wrist with a reassuring hand.
“Thank you Sir Leon.” I carry our secret to the grave.
“And you Sire.” As will I.
Arthur nods and lets Leon get about his business.
|~~~|
Leon drapes the freshened blankets over rope by a fire far from the King’s pavilion, trying not to avoid the eye of any he passes. Such behaviour would declare his guilt, destroy Arthur’s reputation, and humiliate the King.
What have I done?
He returns to the tent, deep in thoughts of leaving Camelot, and finds Arthur sitting between his blankets.
“Do you think others are made to feel the same shame you do?” Arthur asks rather formally once Leon ties the entry closed again.
“I feel remorse my Lord, not shame.”
“As do I,” Arthur admits.
Their eyes hold for a moment. “Sire…” Leon is effectively shushed by the simple turning back of a blanket corner.
“Know that I would never taint what passed between us by threatening to tell my Fath…the King.”
“Know that I would never risk your reputation by breathing word of what we shared to another soul.”
Mutually assured, they set about trying to get into comfortable sleeping positions.
“Is it traditional to …kiss …or something after fraternising?” Arthur asks quietly.
“That would depend upon the acquaintance,” Leon teases gently before kissing him goodnight.
|~~~|
Arthur’s confidence increases as they approach the castle. None in Father’s army suspect a thing, or some fuss would have been made long before they reached Camelot’s gates.
|~~~|
Uther attaches his seal to Geoffrey of Monmouth’s records of the recent warfare and hands them back. “Your plan regarding the sleeping arrangements for my son,” he begins.
“Suitable, your Majesty?” Geoffrey enquires politely.
“Entirely.” The young men in question now focus entirely on training rather than each other when either takes the field. Uther questions Geoffrey. “How is it you were so confident that fraternising would not make their obsessions worse?”
“Once they realised such passion compromised their duty to Camelot-”
Uther waves his hand impatiently. “I seek evidence, not more theory.”
“It worked for me on my first campaign, your Majesty.”
Uther dismisses Geoffrey after begging forgiveness for his impropriety. Then remembers the words of his own father: Geoffrey of Monmouth is one of my most trusted companions. Why, on our very first trek into battle, his uncle made us share a tent… hrmph, that’s enough said about that.