[Open post] ..life's a hall of mirrors..

[lanselos_du_lac]

It's been an exhausting few days. While the zombie siege was dangerous, Lancelot is proud of how they handled things, together -- even though not everyone is friends. He was also, he must admit, grateful for the diversion. There is too much on his mind, after the truth-telling spell, and most of it sits like a stone in him... making his sleep even worse, weighing on his heart.

Still, all of that is strangely intermixed with hope. He has a few new friendships that feel like how he remembers friendship feeling -- pleasure in each other's company, time well spent, connection. There's a little piece of him that feels as if he gave that up with youth. (He was always glad to be in Arthur's company, or Guinevere's, he misses them in a way that's sometimes physically painful now that they're away from him. But all of that feels shored up by duty, devotion, love -- nothing simple.) He is glad he could speak plainly with Galahad, glad for all of these new possibilities. Glad of Susan, Laertes, Grantaire -- even Sagramore, whom only months ago he would have given little notice.

So he's reverted to keeping to himself, a little, while he thinks things through. He keeps his schedule: sleep (or not sleeping), drills in the morning, finding something to eat after that, wandering the mansion or the grounds. He's not as adrift as he was, and he is sober most of the time now, but it's an adjustment.

This afternoon he's determined that it's been too long since he took proper care of his sword. He's found a bench and has set himself up there to clean, hone, and oil the blade.

Comments

[lanselos_du_lac]

He laughs, "I'm afraid I am not sorry for that."

There is a little pause as he brushes his fingertips across her cheek; there's a struggle within him about how much to say. After a moment, he decides. "There are things I would tell thee, things I would have thee know first, if we were to decide to lie with one another. But-- they are mostly unhappy. I am so glad to be with thee, to have thee here like this, and thou'rt beautiful as the day is, and I don't wish to spoil it. Only to enjoy thee. For today, perhaps, we keep close. Thou canst show me how best to kiss thee. Then we can sort the rest as we go." He takes a breath, then adds, "I have made so many mistakes. I wish to make none with thee, an I can help it."

[quote_gentle_unquote]

Susan's eyelashes flutter again at his touch. For all that she has railed against gentleness in front of Lancelot multiple times now, she finds that she likes how gentle he is very much. It is a queer feeling, to realize this: she thought herself insensate to softness any more.

But just kissing! This, too, is something she must grapple with. She hasn't left off at just kissing anyone since she was young¹ and inexperienced - save, perhaps, an idling afternoon with Miriam the day after one of their private assignations, perhaps last summer. She's a goal-oriented woman, and while the end-point of that goal has evolved from feeling good to feeling anything over the past few months, the outcome has largely remained consistent for some years now.

She likes Lancelot, though. It surprises her, a little, the ways in which she likes Lancelot. Despite her ability to get along easily with them, she doesn't often make genuine friends with men. Certainly she rarely opens up to them, honest and full-throated. And she suspects she might even like him in the other way, too. She's sincerely interested in seeing where this could go, and she knows enough of his story (partly from him; partly from his legend) that she can guess what sort of things he might want to tell her about.

She finds that, to her surprise, she rather fiercely does not want to be one of his mistakes. This must mean, then, that he cannot be one of her stopgaps.

Susan considers how she can phrase her thoughts, flirtatiously and lightly enough that it makes him laugh and kiss her again. She decides, at the last minute, to go for honesty instead.

"I think that is good. I - there are things I should probably tell you first, too." She drags her gaze up to meet his head-on; flushing, she clarifies, "I have been called oversexed, in the past, and rightfully so. That is not the only thing, or the whole picture, and I am not ashamed of it, but it lies at the heart of much I would say. Kissing alone, today, is... smart. It's good. I would like that very much."

¹Thus sayeth the twenty-two year old.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot listens intently, thoughtfully, holding her gaze, his expression soft. But at the last, his smile lights again -- like he's been given a gift he didn't expect.

His arm tightens around her waist; his fingers trace along her jaw. He says, "That's well, then. And we can speak of the rest soon enough." Then he pulls her in for another kiss, sweet and suffused with gratitude, joy.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

Susan responds in kind. It's good, to have some sense of direction. To know that Lancelot only wants this, for now, is freeing: she lets go of thoughts of impressing him with her skill, or guiding this in a direction she'll prefer, and instead focuses on the feeling of his hands on her, and his mouth against her own, and the feeling of his hair brushing her arm. The sun is warm at her back; Lancelot is warm at her front. Aided by the brightness of his smile, the chill of her permafrost recedes a few more inches.

[lanselos_du_lac]

He lets his hands move -- over her hair, down her neck, his other hand sliding up between her shoulder blades. Lancelot is learning the shape of her, attentive to her reactions, but also just enjoying her, savoring the feel of her. His kiss is languid, now, deep and still sweet; he had nearly forgotten that this kind of pleasure, this kind of connection, was possible.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

This is meditative, in a way. Lancelot's hands light a fire across Susan's skin as he runs them over her body, and Susan finds herself enjoying letting that fire simmer, but not build. She's kissing him eagerly now, matching his easy pace, but with an enthusiasm for the taste of him. Now that she's less preoccupied with what she's doing, she can acknowledge he also has skill at this, and she's glad she's sitting in his lap instead of standing, weak-kneed, clutching at his (lovely) shoulders.

She feels them now, his shoulders, firm under her hands. She lets one hand drift down his back, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt, and the sturdiness below that.

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Thou'rt lovely," he murmurs, in a break for breath. He cups her face in his hands, his gaze full.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

"And you're sweet," Susan says, pertly, blinking up at him. And then: "And so very handsome, my God. Look at you."

[lanselos_du_lac]

He laughs, delighted, "Dost think so?"

[quote_gentle_unquote]

"I do," Susan says. She moves her hand on his back to his chin, pinching it lightly, using it to pull him in to a playful kiss. "You are a striking man, Sir."

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot kisses her happily, still laughing a little, "I am glad to be found so striking, if that has earned me thy affections." He resettles his arms around her waist, "Art still comfortable?"

[quote_gentle_unquote]

"Ah," Susan says. "No. I mean, yes, I'm very comfortable. But I have been very good about not noticing your looks since we decided to be friends. I'm just now letting myself catch up, you see."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Oh?" He grins at her, "I see. Making an effort not to notice. Well, take all the time thou dost need. I am a patient man."

[quote_gentle_unquote]

"That's nice." The small, genuine smile is back. "I am a fast woman, and a quick study. I've caught up." She kisses him. "I only mean that you earned my affection with your other attributes."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I am glad to hear it," reaching up again to touch her face, letting his thumb brush along that smile. "I am glad of thee."

[quote_gentle_unquote]

There are many things Susan wants to say to that: that she's glad of him; that he flatters her; that his skill with his tongue is clearly equal to his skill with his sword; that she knows she's a gift. Each has a different tone, a different implication, and lends itself to a different response, and she's not certain which she wants to go for.

Rather than decide, she turns her face into his touch, letting it drag across her mouth, and kisses the heel of his thumb.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot makes a small, appreciative sound, his face heating again, and bends to kiss the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her jaw.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

Susan lets herself be kissed, craning up into Lancelot's touch, eyes drifting shut again. She likes the feeling, as usual; more to the point, she likes the feeling of him, specifically. He's so warm, and she shivers with it, fingers clutching at his back.

[lanselos_du_lac]

He continues with the light touches, indulgently, kissing the spot just under her jaw. It's likely clear that he's just as focused on pleasing her, attentive to her reactions, as he is taking his own pleasure in enjoying her -- the feel of her, her scent.

It's been so long since he had this kind of closeness, this much touch, this much pleasure and the luxury of it feeling so uncomplicated, that he's starting to feel a little drunk with it. He lets the warmth of it, the happiness, seep through him. (He does want her; he hadn't been quite sure until today. It made him nervous to think of wanting her, but at this moment he feels none of that. Still, he's glad for the chance to take his time.)

[quote_gentle_unquote]

Susan is, as ever, preternaturally quiet outside of the tiny, natural sounds her body makes: the soft, slick noise of her parting her lips, the puff of air that comes with a heavier exhale, the rustling of her dress as she presses closer to Lancelot. It's a learned quiet that she's never bothered to unlearn. Her movements, however, are a studied contrast: She's trying so hard not to shift against him, to make this more than what they agreed, so she's satisfying herself -- while reinforcing a careful, minuscule distance -- by running her hands up and down his arms, his back, his shoulders. At first she presses her jaw to his mouth, relishing in the feeling of his lips; then, she grows impatient and twists her head, capturing his mouth in a fiercer kiss.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot gasps at this but returns the kiss with equal fierceness, one arm tightening around her waist -- his other hand rests lightly at the back of her neck, and he shifts against her.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

Susan gets caught up in Lancelot, in the feeling of his body and the intensity of his kiss, for a few long moments. She forgets, briefly, what they've agreed to, and starts tugging at his top -- only to come back to herself a moment later and pull away with a small, rueful smile. "You make it very easy to get carried away," she tells him; it's not an apology.

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Aye," he says, sounding a little dazed. It's not meant as a boast. He takes a breath. "Susan," he says, still unsure at how informal, how familiar it sounds. He worries for a moment, against even his own judgment, that he's over stepping.

Another breath. "I would like--" He glances away for a moment, then back. "I would like for us to have dinner. Tonight, or any other night. So that we may speak, and understand one another."

He stops himself before he says and determine how to proceed, because it sounds too formal, even to him, and he's suddenly sharply self-conscious.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

"Yes," Susan says, and there's that tiny, genuine smile again, shining out. She moves her hands to his shoulders, creating a slight and necessary distance between their torsos, then brushes his cheek with the backs of her fingers and strokes that hand on through his hair, smoothing it back. "I would like that very much. Tonight, or any other night."

[lanselos_du_lac]

He smiles a little, though he's clearly still a little nervous. "Tonight, then."