Tangible Schizophrenia



Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17. Bondage.
Pairing: Arthur/Lancelot
Feedback: Good lines, bad ones, etc.
Disclaimer: Versions from the movie.
Notes: Happy birthday, alethialia! Thank you for the good advice, wonderful support, and sharp eye.
Summary: Stable porn.


They’d been arguing about something or the other; there were so many possible subjects that Lancelot only kept track of the most important ones. It had been a lighter discussion, not serious at all, so he hadn’t bothered to really pay attention aside from picking out the flaws in Arthur’s presentation of his views. He’d been helping the man improve useful skills. And if he hadn’t, then it had still been a conversation of no consequence. Arthur didn’t have to get that offended.

If the man was going to be that sensitive, then Lancelot was never bending over around him again. All he’d done was comment that Arthur should subject his thoughts to less rigorous testing so they weren’t crushed to uselessness. And then he’d accidentally knocked the polishing rag off the saddle hanging next to him, so he’d leaned over the saddle to see where it had fallen.

As dull and slow-to-learn as Arthur’s conversation was, he nevertheless could move when he wished to. Before Lancelot had known it, his wrists had been yanked all the way over and bound up in the straps dangling from the far side of the saddle, and then Arthur had been busy tightening other straps so the saddle wouldn’t fall off the rail.

“You really don’t take dissent well, do you?” Lancelot tugged at his hands, hoping that Arthur had forgotten a twist, but unfortunately Arthur was as dutifully efficient at knot-tying as he was at everything else. Still, those knots weren’t terribly complex, so Lancelot could probably undo them with his teeth. He leaned over for a closer look.

And completely missed Arthur ducking under the rail to come up behind Lancelot and press. “Actually, I’m about to try out your suggestion.”

Suddenly Lancelot very much wished he could remember exactly what he’d said. Because if it was always so easy to get Arthur mouthing the back of his neck and peeling the clothes off of him, big calloused hands working with the same quick firm movements used to skin hares—rasping nipples and chasing shudders down Lancelot’s belly, and Lancelot forgot the other half of his thought. He wormed backward as best he could, trying to yank the saddle around so all the blood wasn’t pooling in his head. But then Arthur shoved a knee between his legs and pushed up with it, crush-rubbing Lancelot’s prick against the worn, rapidly-warming leather of the saddle, and that problem took care of itself. His blood reversed and pooled in his cock…which left him just as dizzy as before. “Oh, now you listen to me.”

Sharp bite to the join of his shoulder and neck. “Are you asking me to stop?”

“No!” For good measure, Lancelot shook his head and rolled back into the erection pressing into him. Dug in his heels and stretched out his legs one at a time so he could tease Arthur with the slow change in pressure. “It’s…only…only with this…don’t you…”

The hands on Lancelot slowed, curved to follow his ribs and then stroked down to cradle his waist. Arthur sighed, laid his forehead against Lancelot’s back. “I always listen.”

And Lancelot was already regretting his mouth, but it would run away with the truth and not be content with the lies, or the half-lies. He could hear the plea for understanding in Arthur’s voice, but not one for forgiveness—fool, as if Lancelot could ever deny the man either. He doubly couldn’t now, not with Arthur’s prick fitting into the curve of his ass and Arthur’s fingers splayed over his belly and Arthur’s breath staining the back of his neck. This time, more than any other, there was nothing between them.

“I know,” Lancelot muttered. That was all he allowed himself to say before biting into the saddle flap so he couldn’t spoil it anymore, and arching insistently against Arthur.

He earned himself a chuckle—they had so few of these moments that Arthur wasn’t ready to throw one away, either—and a soft kiss on his nape. Lancelot bucked.

“Impatient.” Amused once more, Arthur let the matter fully drop and threw himself back into shocking Lancelot senseless.

If Lancelot’s pride had been a consideration, it would have been embarrassing how quickly a few fingers and judicious application of lips and teeth could reduce him to a shuddering, whining mess. But they were all Arthur’s, and they were touching him everywhere they could reach, tracing old scars and burning shadowy new ones into his flesh and then—shoving in and up till Lancelot’s feet lifted off the floor, till he had to clutch at the straps binding him and sink his teeth into earthy pungent leather till he thought he’d bitten straight through. And that was before Arthur got to the actual fucking part.

During—Lancelot hung there and tried to take it as long as he could, as much as he could, not minding the clench and near-rip and sudden startling roughness because it tore him to rawness. It got through the layers of armor beneath the armor that he wore into battle, it laid itself beneath his skin and stretched it till he remembered that—

--and after that one snapping moment, he never could remember what that was. But he could recall a ghost of its feeling, and it felt like something he would bend knee to, acknowledge as god over his turbulent life.

Arthur always murmured something, when they were simply lying wound around each other. Not Latin, not Sarmatian…something in Briton, that Lancelot hadn’t quite learned yet. But it was soft and soothing and for a moment, there was peace.

Eventually, he had to give in to the ache of being bent nearly in half. He squirmed till Arthur got the point, and then he slumped back on the saddle. “You should do that more often. It’d probably be good for you.”

“I don’t know if it’d be so good for you,” Arthur laughed, coming around. He absently did up his clothes as he squatted down to level eyes with Lancelot. “You look worse than you do after a battle.”

“Well, I’m hanging in a stable with my bare ass in the air while some stupid Roman laughs at me.” Lancelot twitched his fingers at Arthur. “By the way, leaving me here is not developing a good sense of humor.”

Arthur paused, blank-faced. Then he grinned and reached for Lancelot, who took the opportunity to grab the man and kiss him, long and sweetly. One last trace of contentment.

When Arthur drew back, he was still smiling, but the care and the worry was already creeping back into his face. He stroked the side of Lancelot’s cheek, very slow, then quickly untied Lancelot and helped him redress.

Much more often,” Lancelot said, leaning into Arthur as much as he could. He was sore; he needed the support.

The dark shadow in Arthur’s smile went away again, and this time, he was the one who stole a kiss.