Dear Reader:

This one-shot is a direct result of a one-shot by Ailis-70 called 'Curls'. She inspired me to write about Lancelot the next morning, and what he would look like, say, do. So this is entirely her fault. She told me to go for it, so here it is!

So Ailis-70... TAG! You're it, if you so dare. (wink)

I hope that all of you, dear readers, at some point in your life journey, are inspired by something in your life. I hope that it lets you experience wonderful and fulfilling things, to give your memories substance beyond measure.

Enjoy, and thank you for spending a few quiet moments with me as you read this small piece.

Cardeia

The Morning After

The sun in shining in through the small, high window, casting a slim yellow beam across the cen­tre of the floor. I can see clearly the imprint of the square on the dirt, a spot of brightness in the otherwise darkened room.

There is dust in this beam, wavering, settling slowly in the air I shift underneath the furs, I see the cloud dance away in reaction to the movement, it's peaceful descent disturbed.

From the other side of his pallet, nearest the wall, I sense him shifting. I turn, careful not to disturb him, and rest on one arm, to watch.

A riotous mop of curls just visible at the edge of our bedding, the stitched edge of the fur falling neatly across his jaw, obscures my view.

Such hair.

My hand, now possessed of its own volition, reaches out and caresses the dark brown thicket, feeling the warmth through my fingers, feeling the strands slide across my skin. Only just last night did I touch these curls for the first time, run my hands through them, play with them.

A hoarse moan escapes from deep within him and he opens one eye to regard me. The covers slide back, and he emerges, the other eye now blinking along with the first, sleepy but alive with mis­chief. An arm snakes out and calmly pulls me closer to him, our hips touching under the covers, his manhood hard against my stomach.

I have not stopped playing with his curls, and his eyes dance over mine as he leans into my caress, ever so slightly.

He moves forward in our embrace and bites the crook of my neck softly, his tongue running in tiny perfect circles as he kisses, then nibbles at my skin. The stubble on his cheeks rasp at my shoulder, sending small chills down through my body, out my toes. I stretch languidly in his embrace, the result of his touch forcing my muscles to come alive.

I can't help myself and I pull on those curls, letting the sensation take over my body. I feel his reaction prod me from under the covers and I smile knowingly. He raises an eyebrow and shifts away, teasing, jesting. He props himself on his other arm and smiles back, as I attempt to calm my breathing, looking at him through heavy-lidded eyes. My hand sneaks out once more to twist a curl around his ears.

"I'll return in a moment."

I watch as he sits up, his back to me now at the edge of the pallet. I reluctantly let go of him. I see the scars on his muscles twist as he turns his back first one way, then the other. A hand comes up and runs fingers through his hair, snagging on knots and tangles. He hisses and works his fingers through, shaking his head once done, leaning forward a moment to allow his hand to rub his face, the back of his neck. I reach out, and run my fingers down his spine, lightly caressing scars, skin. I stop at the small of his back, hovering. I can almost see the skin shift at my touch, and he darts a look over his shoulder, his eyes husky, his eyebrow raised.

"Temptress."

I bite my lip and flutter my eyelashes. Truly he is the temptation, not I.

He grins widely, his victory complete and stands. He knows.

I can see the outline of his narrow hips in the beam of sunlight as he strides towards where his trews were thrown the night before. I roll over again to watch him dress, enjoying the way he bounces slightly as he fits his muscled thighs into each leg. Slightly unbalanced, he hops on one leg as he pulls his right foot through, moves about again as he does up half the laces, then gives up and lets them hang.

"Where are you going?" I ask sleepily, a yawn escaping along with my first words of the day as I settle to my stomach, my head rested on both hands.

He holds up a finger and winks, wiggling it back and forth, like an old woman chastising a child.

He means not to tell me.

I laugh at this, and listen to the deep rumble of laughter that he too begins. I bury my head into bed as he leans over me, one hand out beside me to steady his posture. I feel the weight of it shift­ing the straw underneath me and I lean back into it, letting my shoulder blades touch his arm.

I can still see the sleep in his eyes, the creases that the straw tick leaves on a cheekbone after a night of rest on one side. I tilt my head up then to look at him, my own hair covering my cheek.

Laughter stilled, his pecks me lightly on my nose and I can feel the whiskers from his chin tickle the tip.

With that he saunters out into the air, the door creaking on its hinges as he opens it, stepping up and out. I can see him walk towards the latrine row, his hand absently scratching through the hair on his chest, the other on the small of his back. Private moments for him, when the exertions of the night before allow him to take some measure to recollect their true result on his body.

I know he would never simper so about this type of exercise in front of the men. Or the women. If nothing, he must show that he is a well-bred stallion in his endurance, God-like in his prowess. A brag­gart and wooer in one.

Indeed, did I not just verify it for him?

Truthfully, the rumour mill of the women is not entirely fictional. I stretch one more time, feeling the tightness of my own muscles, the faint bruising around my inner-thighs. The bite marks on my breasts and bottom.

And I never listened, until now.

All I saw were those curls, the way they would blow about in the breeze, the smile and flash of his eye as he would tempt and tame. His posture, lethal and prowling as he selected his quarry, his laughter deep, his stride smooth as he danced the women about.

So many nights have I watched him, wondering, wanting. Oh but to be the one to catch more than his fancy, but also his heart.

I lose sight of him around the corner, and I return to watching the shaft of sunlight move across the floor. My fingers twirl a lock of my own hair as I think about how smooth and soft his curls are, for such a rough and fierce man. How long they are when straightened, how delicious they are when held in tight fists and pulled in the heat of passion.

How utterly dark with desire his eyes become when I do so.

I anxiously anticipate his return and the sensation of them in my hands, and I can feel my body heat at the thought.

I know I am beyond return. I have succumbed to the sweet seduction of Lancelot's curls.