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His jaw aches.
He didn’t expect that, honestly, but in the back of his mind a small voice is reasonably suggesting that it’s because he comes within minutes of someone wrapping their tongue around his own cock and he can’t really argue with that.
Leon’s made of sterner stuff, it seems.
If he had to describe his current state – and horrifyingly, he might someday – he’d say his jaw is sore, his lips going numb, his feet are asleep, and the rhythmic tugging on his hair that Leon’s adopted has his pulse pounding along his scalp line in double-time. His chin and neck are slippery with spit and he doesn’t really care if he can’t breathe when Leon pushes in a little bit too deep.
Arthur loves it. He loves this. And that is also unexpected.
Leon’s been letting loose a steady stream of words for the past ten minutes, throaty moans and growly mutters that assault Arthur’s ears, and he loves that too. Auditory worship, encouragement, reverence even. And if Arthur’s throat wasn't too sore to issue a laugh that sounded like anything other than a croak, he would.
“Ohhhh, yes, there. Flutter your tongue against – yes. Like that. Oh, so good, so sweet, that’s perfect –“
For a brief moment, Arthur wonders why Leon’s never so vocal in his praise on the practice yard. Then he feels two sets of fingers running through his hair, tilting his face up and back and he finally opens his eyes.
Leon’s wrecked. He’s destroyed and he’s watching Arthur in the light of the dying fire. His hair is swaying around his ears in sweaty curls, his lips are bitten and plump-red, a small furrow between his brows as though this is the most exquisite torture he’s ever faced at the hands of man. But upon seeing Arthur’s eyes -- always brave, always upright, forever bound to me now -- he gusts out a sharp exhale and his fingers clench tight in his prince’s hair.
The additional pain is sweet and grounding and Arthur swoons at the feel, at the taste as Leon spurts a tiny bit onto his tongue. His hands, which had been wrapped around Leon’s calves, finally come up to his hips, cupping the sharp jut of bone and pulling him farther in to him.
By this point, Arthur wants this over. Not because of the aches, or the increasing light-headedness, or even because of the prospect that he’ll finally get some relief for the hard, throbbing length between his own legs. No, by this point all Arthur wants is to see. He wants Leon – bravest of all his men, his friend, his teacher, his knight -- to break. He wants to see this bastion of everything he’s ever wanted to be fall to pieces and then be the one to pick him back up to put him back together again. That thought, and only that thought, is enough to cause Arthur to do what he hadn’t in all the past hour.
He moans.
It may have been the moan that did it. Arthur is never sure, afterward. “Yesss, sire, take it, please, oh please please please your eyes, gods, your mouth…” All he knows is that Leon’s gently-whisper-growled instructions devolve into reverent incoherence and then his whole body shudders and draws up tight.
The taste, when it comes, is salty and thick and Leon’s cock twitches hard in Arthur’s mouth. He holds himself as still as he can, catching all that he can and reveling in the flood, and his gaze never leaves Leon’s face.
Leon, whose eyes have squinched shut, his teeth gritted and his voice whining high and tight, keening in the back of his throat. Arthur is entranced, forgetting his full mouth and barely feels the thick liquid escaping down his lips and chin. It’s so beautiful, the shattering, the shuddering, and Arthur shudders with him as he comes silently onto the rug.
Later, when Leon is calmed and Arthur is watchful, and when the fire has completely died, the prince will remind his knight of the oaths they share. Of the ties that bind them to each other: Camelot and her people and her honor. And somehow Arthur will assure his man of his own loyalty and love, and they will watch the sun rise.
He is a kind man. He will wait to ask for his second lesson until at least noon.