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What Will You do for it?

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Uther doesn’t speak. Just leans in takes, as he has wanted to for years. They are not gentle with each other, this bruising battle of lips. Uther was right, about the taste of Leon. He taste of salt and of earth and of sun. Uther could lose himself in the taste, in the feel of sword-calloused hands slipping under his shirt, dipping into the waistband of his trousers. He takes, rough and bruising but as gentle as he knows how. When Leon cries out, and he swallows the sound, it feels as though he’s never truly indulged until this moment.

Uther is right. Leon grows up soft and gentle. He moves fluidly, time easing over him on simple waves that sharpen his chin and broaden his shoulders. He is acknowledged by his father. And though Uther knows the math does not add up, he does not challenge his father, or the claims of the nobel family.

He beats his disbelief into Leon on the fields. He tells himself the boy is too scrawny. That he bruises him to strengthen him. And it works; corded muscles, the lean plane of his abdomen, the roguish grin that only grows in confidence. Leon is the only one who can get away with occasionally putting Uther on his back. He is also the only one who can manage it.

Uther does not cripple him, does not pound his flesh until he can no longer stand, until the court physician judges Uther with a single brow. He does however, watch the boy, the boy who is growing so well into manhood, rub the soothing creams into his shoulders, into his thighs. He knows Leon can feel the way he stares, the greedy hunger in his eyes, by the way the back of his neck, the blades of his shoulder rush with blood.

Sometimes Leon will turn his head, so the sun back lights his profile, so that he can half smirk at the prince, My King, as he slows those firm fingers. Uther forgets whose ribs receive the ointment in those moments. He knows he is being teased, when Leon tilts his head back, when he sighs so deeply Uther’s chest heaves. Uther doesn’t know how to handle Leon in these moments. He wants to grab the boy, to feel the flesh give under his fingers, to taste the salt of his skin.

He wants to sink his teeth into buttery skin, and he wants to know Leon will let him. And he knows, God but he knows, that Leon will let him.

It's why Leon lingers after a particularly harsh training, lets his fingers trail under Uther’s chin as he checks him for bruises. It's why Leon seeks him out in the castle, after hours of council meetings and tutorings, just to smile at him so tenderly Uther thinks his chest might cave in.

He doesn’t let Leon know, can’t let the boy-the man, know what he does. He will be king, dammit. He cannot afford distractions of the purest kind.

He doesn’t stop Leon the first time he sinks to his knees. How he slipped into Uther’s chambers he might never know- might never question it.. But, and Uther will deny this forever, he knows he will never want another in this way.

He tries be gentle when he cries out, when he grips Leon’s curls and sighs into his throat. Leon, for his part, just smirks as he wipes his lips.

“You shouldn’t be in here.” It comes out rougher than he means.

Leon just shrugs, leans in close and Uther can smell the heat of the day on his skin, the sweat from their session earlier. Can even smell himself on Leon. “Wherever my king wishes, that is where I will be.”

Uther brushes a thumb across Leon’s lips. “I am not yet king.”

There’s a fire in Leon’s blue blue eyes. He dips so that he is bowed low, but he raises his eyes toward Uther. “I told you that day on the field, You are my king. You’re father merely warms the throne.”

Uther grips his jaw hard, surprised at how it carves into his palm. “To speak in such manner is treason.”

Leon licks his lips and Uther’s belly swirls. “So punish me, Sire.”

Uther growls and shoves the man- the boy away. “You shouldn’t tease me so.”

Leon pushes up, crowds into Uther’s space so they are chest to chest. It bothers Uther, in that moment that his trousers are unlaced. That despite everything, Leon still looks so well put together. He makes a show of cutting his eyes towards Uther’s lips.

“What, my Lord, will you do for it?”

Uther doesn’t speak. Just leans in takes, as he has wanted to for years. They are not gentle with each other, this bruising battle of lips. Uther was right, about the taste of Leon. He taste of salt and of earth and of sun. Uther could lose himself in the taste, in the feel of sword-calloused hands slipping under his shirt, dipping into the waistband of his trousers. He takes, rough and bruising but as gentle as he knows how. When Leon cries out, and he swallows the sound, it feels as though he’s never truly indulged until this moment.

Leon pulls back, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. A smirk that says he has won a grand prize, has tasted heaven’s fruit and lived to tell of it. A smirk, Uther thinks, that he is wholly undeserving of and one that he worries, if he lets the man wearing it leave his room tonight, he might never see again.