Tangible Schizophrenia



Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17. Bondage.
Pairing: Arthur/Lancelot
Feedback: Good lines, bad ones, etc.
Disclaimer: Versions from the movie, not me.
Summary: Unrepentant smut. No plot whatsoever. No angst. Lancelot throws out a challenge and Arthur takes him up on it.


For the past week, the rain had been coming down with barely more than an hour’s breather in between storms—if even that. Until a few days ago, refugees fleeing from the lowlands had made for a steady stream of complications at the gates, but now floodwaters cut off any movement whatsoever from the garrison.

Fortunately, food was in plenty and room was, if not ample, at least sufficient. Aside from the expected grumblings, most of the men were happy to have a rest from their duties, for if the soldiers couldn’t get out, then the Woads couldn’t get in. After weeks of constant skirmishing, they were at the stage where relaxation soothed seemingly all aches, and not quite at the stage where boredom became a greater danger than the enemy.

With a grateful sigh, Arthur finished his daily rounds early and retired to his room with a full stomach and the prospect of reading a few new texts, for whom he’d wrangled a place in the latest dispatches. While he didn’t normally use his rank as leverage, his personal mail had been already held up for two months and he was in desperate need of something to read besides official orders. He flopped on his bed, enjoyed a long stretch without the constriction of armor, and opened the first book.

Halfway down the page, something flopped onto his legs. Arthur ignored it, and then the subsequent pokings and rustlings, in favor of skimming the newest—most likely two years’ old by now—philosophical opinion on the division of the soul and the body.

A sigh. A grunt. “Damn it, Arthur. Don’t make me try any harder.”

“It’s difficult to see how you could, anyway,” Arthur muttered, curbing in his temper. He glanced at the door and saw the closed bolts, then lifted his book and smacked it on Lancelot’s hand, which was wandering up his thigh. “May I read this in peace?”

With a thoroughly injured expression, Lancelot nursed his hand. He was sprawled over Arthur’s legs, barefoot and slightly damp from a recent walk outside, which had left him smelling of pungent grassy earth. In a gesture to the clinging humidity, he’d also stripped down to trousers like Arthur had. “No.”

“You sound like Bors’ children.” After running his fingers over the spine of his book, Arthur decided that it was undamaged and thus he couldn’t justifiably extract punishment from Lancelot for that. “Why not?”

“Because I’ve done everything else that can be done in this fucking weather.” Like a petulant cat, Lancelot rolled onto his back and pawed at Arthur’s knee, rumpling up the cloth there. “Entertain me.”

The thought actually crossed Arthur’s mind that Lancelot had lost his reason. Although the other man wasn’t known for his subtlety, he usually wasn’t this blatant.

On the other hand, Lancelot was both gifted and cursed with a hunger for life that made him exhaust every opportunity that came his way at twice the speed of other men. If he said that he had already done everything else, then he truly meant it. His words were both an implicit admittance of desperation, and something of an insult to Arthur. “So are you saying that I’m expected to provide you with your last resort?”

Lancelot made a face and slapped Arthur’s knee, then rubbed his cheek up the inside of Arthur’s leg, stopping just short. “You’re not going to get out of this by pretending to be affronted, Arthur. I didn’t try before because you were busy, and helpful knight that I am, I decided to be considerate.”

“And you don’t consider this a prior engagement on my time?” As Arthur lifted his book, he was silently snorting at the predicted reply.

With practiced ease, Lancelot reached up and trailed one finger along the edges of the pages, then grinned. His eyes flicked down to the one part of Arthur’s body that, no matter what, refused to be seduced by the beauties of pure thought. “More a matter of what you think, really.”

Unfortunately for the counterargument in Arthur’s head, the book was looking less interesting by the second. He was, however, still irked about Lancelot’s breezy confidence that he would so easily give up what he wanted to do in order to placate the other man. “What I think is that you should be a little more careful about what you ask for.”

“How so? You don’t actually think you can outlast me, do you? Arthur, Arthur, I’m far more determined than that.” To punctuate his statement, Lancelot feathered his fingers over Arthur’s hip, his longest finger drifting down to graze a tingling line over Arthur’s stirring prick.

Very calmly, Arthur set the book aside; he didn’t bother sparing it one last look because he was fully expecting to return to it. Then he picked Lancelot’s hand off his crotch and gathered up the man’s other wrist as well, ignoring the smug smile on Lancelot’s face. When Lancelot was halfway to saying something, Arthur casually snaked his hand down and pressed its heel hard between Lancelot’s legs, just behind the balls.

Instead of words, the man emitted a kind of whine.

A few moments’ grinding into that spot soon revived Lancelot into enthusiastic squirming that was decidedly not aimed at freeing himself. As Arthur finally dragged his palm up to rub against the line of Lancelot’s cock, the other man twisted forward and licked heat up Arthur’s neck. “This is your idea of discouragement?”

“At the moment, I’m not trying to discourage you.” Not quite all of the truth, but Arthur was still irritated, even if having a tongue bathe his pulse did feel rather good. He tilted his head to allow Lancelot better access and continued to work his fingers around the rising bulge, teasing and coaxing it into a more ample handful. It didn’t take much effort, given that Lancelot was doing half the work by shoving back as he did. “You know, sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened to you if I’d been someone else.”

“I’d be perfectly fine.” Tongue needling sparks from Arthur’s ear, then teeth nipping at the edge of his jaw. “There might be an extra grave in the officers’ area of the cemetery.” A startled gasp when Arthur briefly slid his hand back to pinch, and then a sharp bite. “You’re…in a good mood. Usually you need more convincing.”

From the way the other man spoke, he might have been talking of a particularly shrewish virgin. While Arthur wasn’t precisely irked, he did derive guilty satisfaction out of spinning Lancelot around to put the man’s back against his chest and thus depriving Lancelot ways to retaliate. Then he deliberately slowed his massaging, and tightened his grip on Lancelot’s wrists when the other man tried to buck up the pace. “If you didn’t confuse reluctance with prudence, you and the rest of the world would probably be on better terms.”

“I’m on…lovely terms…with everyone else. Who aren’t melancholy…Arthur, if you don’t—” Lancelot’s mouth shut with an audible clicking of teeth, and his eyes rolled back into his head, which had pinned itself to Arthur’s shoulder.

“Hmm?” Arthur temporarily pulled his hand back out to pull Lancelot’s trousers off, then leaned forward to kiss around Lancelot’s moan. “Of course, Galahad trying to strangle you a week ago was an event devoid of significance.”

Between the glare and the glaze, Lancelot’s eyes looked as if they were in danger of melting. But he rallied after a minute and even managed to will himself to relax into Arthur’s ministrations. “His fault for being careless.”

“I think I’ll refrain from asking what you mean by that,” Arthur dryly replied. Although Lancelot wasn’t a liar, neither was he the most reliable source of information. Luckily for the peace of the garrison, Tristan had been around and had provided a detailed account of the whole proceeding, upon which Arthur could base his decisions. “And I hope there won’t be a repeat.”

Whenever Lancelot’s hips pushed against Arthur, they always made a slight rolling that had too salubrious an effect on Arthur’s arousal to be unpremeditated. The other man clearly still thought he had the upper hand, despite the minute shakes that were starting to travel through his body. “Repeat? Doubtful. Galahad fights like a…a…”

“Is there anything that’ll close your mouth?” Arthur wondered aloud, while inwardly he plotted out ways of testing that. Sometimes being well-versed in tactics and strategy was useful in the non-military aspects of his life.

“You’re welcome to try and find out,” Lancelot breathed, surging up to catch Arthur’s mouth in a long, hard kiss that left their lips slightly bleeding. Then he hissed and groaned, going liquid and momentarily wordless.

Arthur continued to pull his fist up and down Lancelot’s prick as it went limp, careful to rub out the last drop of sticky white come. He dropped Lancelot’s wrists and groped behind him with his other hand till his fingers found the broken rein he’d been meaning to fix.

Lancelot had closed his eyes when he had come, but the moment leather slithered around his wrists, they snapped open again. With a vaguely amused air, he watched Arthur tie him to the side of the bed, then stretch him out sideways. “We’re not done yet. I’m still perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation.”

“I noticed.” A moment to wipe off his hand, and then Arthur was digging around for the oil. He slicked up the fingers of one hand and then wasted no time in working them into Lancelot.

Lancelot’s eyes went soft again and his head lolled against the mattress as his still-recovering body jerked into shivers again. Sweat dripped off his chin and pooled in the hollows of his throat, tempting sheen of salt and sweet, and the muscles of his back moved smoothly in long ripples that begged to be stroked. He whimpered when Arthur pushed in his fingers as far as they would go, then worked his throat around a huge, rasping swallow of air when the fingers withdrew a little. Little by little, the man was disintegrating in Arthur’s lap, writhing and hissing into steam that stared up with dazed, pleading eyes.

That look made Arthur hesitate. But then Lancelot gave him a languid grin and a cocky statement. “Knew you’d give in.”

After that, Arthur didn’t feel quite so reluctant about pulling one leg out from under Lancelot and bending it over the other man so he had somewhere to rest his book. One-handed, he thumbed back to where he left off and started reading again.

“Arthur!” Washerwomen who’d had their freshly-washed laundry knocked into the dirt by passing children sounded less offended.

“Yes?” As he spoke, Arthur shoved his fingers into Lancelot and corkscrewed them till he could feel the muscles spasm closed on them. Then he twisted them a little harder to shake out the whole keening moan.

Something thumped Arthur’s bent leg, and then Lancelot bit Arthur’s calf. “You bastard.”

Arthur didn’t bother to look over the top of his text, but instead only hooked his fingers so his nails dragged a little as he slowly raked them out. “Did you want me to stop?”

In a definite negative, Lancelot pushed himself deep so Arthur’s fingers were again encased. “No, you shortsighted Roman son of a bitch. I want you to—fuck.”

There was a reason why Arthur had left his other leg beneath Lancelot. Namely, that when it was in that position, slightly raising it meant he could rub his knee against Lancelot’s cock while using his fingers to urge Lancelot downwards. For a good ten minutes, the other man’s speech degenerated into a gabble of Sarmatian and bastardized Latin, which wasn’t particularly difficult to ignore. In fact, Arthur almost managed to submerge himself deeply enough into his reading to forget about the half-erection he still had.

Lancelot, however, didn’t. When a mouth suddenly sucked on the tip of Arthur’s prick through his trousers, he nearly slammed the book onto Lancelot’s head. “God!”

“Don’t call me that. ‘s not an honor to me,” Lancelot mumbled around his licking and nibbling. He nuzzled, hard enough for it to be called bruising, then set about getting rid of the fabric in the way while Arthur watched his grip on his book turn white-knuckled. It was all Arthur could do to one, keep hold of the heavy volume, and two, keep himself from digging his fingers too hard into Lancelot’s ass.

Perhaps a gag should have been employed as well. Granted, Lancelot didn’t actually need his mouth to effectively communicate his thoughts—as was evidenced by the way his lips circled Arthur’s cock with a punishing, nerve-wringing band of wet fire—but it might have helped a little.

Then again, this kind of slow trial of the body and mind was not tortuous so much as purifying, was not brutal so much as fierce. It was a beautiful flight to almost scrape nails on the floor of heaven, and it was a gift given freely. And in this case, the sometime arrogance of Lancelot’s pride made it mean all the more. So no, Arthur wouldn’t have wanted to miss this rare glimpse of perfection.

When his soul settled back into his very pleasantly tired body, Lancelot was just beginning to stiffen into a second climax. Burying his face in the crease where Arthur’s hip joined torso, Lancelot soaked the skin there with a violent sigh and whipped himself nearly off Arthur’s fingers.

The book landed on the floor, gutted open so its broken spine accused Arthur’s eyes. He shifted his gaze back to Lancelot, who had collapsed much more completely this time, and who was breathing as shallow and quick as the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings.

After a while, Lancelot turned his head just enough to show one half-respectful eye. “Good try.”

Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes and retrieved his sorely abused text while his mind regrouped. “I never said we were done.”

For the first time, Lancelot started to betray some alarm, which almost powered him into sitting up before his muscles failed on him. His chin dug deep into bed, making a pockmark in the sheets, then carved out a long trench as he pillowed his head in a crumple of sheets. “You can’t be serious.”

“Well, if you think you’re still up to it…” Though Arthur knew he was playing on Lancelot’s weaknesses, and knew that he shouldn’t, he still couldn’t help himself. This week of Biblical rain had afforded him a chance to unwind not only in regards to his responsibilities as a commander, but also in regards to the ways he’d had to adapt his character in order to carry out those responsibilities. Contrary to what everyone including Lancelot, who saw the most of Arthur, thought, Arthur didn’t actually enjoy harrowing himself for lapses of character. He ardently wanted to be as happy and carefree as any other man wished to be, but he generally wasn’t in a situation where that was an option. Or where that wouldn’t result in the unhappiness of someone else.

Lancelot’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Arthur so closely that for a moment, he suspected the other man had noticed his drift into somber thought. But then Lancelot snorted and tiredly began to stretch himself—an act that was rudely and rather prettily interrupted by a ferocious shudder, due to some chance collision of Arthur’s fingers and Lancelot’s highly-sensitized nerves. With an effort, Lancelot managed to control himself. “I was only worried that you wouldn’t be,” he said in a haughty tone.

In retaliation, Arthur dragged his fingers almost out, then flicked them free. He caressed the shaking that produced along Lancelot’s spine, then edged his fingers back in. “I hope you’re not implying what I believe you are.”

“What, that time waits for no man?” As another tremble overtook him, Lancelot pressed his face into the bed, while the rest of him reluctantly but helplessly arched up against Arthur’s hand. His whimpers now were broken, and their jagged ends cut his words up into breathless fragments. “Not something I can…stop…though I wish…a few more years and we’ll have to…”

The next shudder twisted Lancelot half on his side, exposing the quiet appeal in his face, which was more raw and more uncertain than the demanding ones that had preceded it. Arthur could feel the air string tense, almost bringing words into the world without needing either of their mouths to do so, but he didn’t wish that. And for once, he was feeling selfish enough to deny those currents passage into his life. So he slowed the movements of his fingers till they were just enough to half-close Lancelot’s eyes and lick the occasional soft moan from the other man’s throat, and he bent past his book to lazily stop Lancelot’s lips with his tongue.

Surprisingly enough, Arthur got through half a chapter before his urge to greedily stare at Lancelot grew too strong to ignore. Thereafter, he never managed more than a few lines before he had to glance again, and it wasn’t long before he’d completely lost track of the very words his eyes were supposedly scanning. He didn’t think anyone could blame him, given the alternative: Lancelot had a way of giving a bend of a limb or a roll of hips the wild elegance that a running wolf, frantic with the lust of the hunt, possessed. And at the same time, he could hiss hot breath up at the underside of Arthur’s knee and make Arthur’s heart suddenly stutter into a frenzied rhythm, make the heat inside Arthur’s head storm and shear till nothing was left except flesh and flesh.

Mesmerized, Arthur felt the passage of time quietly slip from him just as the book glided from his fingers onto the table. He got rid of his clothes, then laid down and curled around Lancelot so he could rest his head on the other man’s hip and simply watch.

Anywhere from an hour to three later, Lancelot finally caught Arthur’s gaze with his own. “Please.”

And Arthur didn’t ask for an explanation, but only leaned forward to take Lancelot’s prick between his lips. He let his tongue drift over it, noting how the taste shaded more salty here, more sweet there, and while his fingers played a few last times on the humming wires of Lancelot’s nerves, he nursed the other man through the almost visible shattering of self.

For the first few moments afterward, Lancelot lipped little soundless nothings while Arthur carefully licked him clean and eased out the fingers. He stayed inert till after Arthur had untied him, but then he took a deep breath, blinked a few times, and tugged his mouth into a shadow of its old challenging self. “Almost.”

Something Arthur shouldn’t forget, but still found himself doing so, was that Lancelot was simply impossible. “You’d better hope for rain tomorrow as well, because I don’t think you’ll even be able to crawl.”

Even while Arthur was lifting his hips and nudging his sprawling-limp legs out of the way, Lancelot still managed credible sarcasm. “If I’m ever in a position where I have to crawl, it’ll be so I can get to my sword and cut off the other man’s head. And I think I’ve earned sick leave for this.”

This,” Arthur grunted, “Is not an illness or an injury.”

“No, I think I’d call it a cure. Better this than you filling your head with more ideals for tarnishing--damn.” Lancelot twitched, very weakly, and pattered his hands against the bed, hanging loose from Arthur’s grip as Arthur pushed his cock into a very welcoming ass. “You could warn me.”

Given the kind of warning Lancelot deigned to bestow on him, Arthur was sorely tempted to make a reply. His common sense got the better of him, so he instead wrapped his arms more firmly around the other man’s waist and shoved all the way in.

What Lancelot said next was an expletive peculiar to Sarmatian and thus more or less untranslatable into Latin or Briton. Then he flexed his hips a little and squeezed a few curses of similar nature from Arthur. It took more than a moment for Arthur to shake his vision clear enough to go on.

“Arthur, I don’t have all day,” Lancelot muttered, sounding bored. “Sometime in the next hour, I’d like to pass out.”

“Some day, you’re going to open your mouth and someone will try to shut it with something sharp.” Properly irked, Arthur tried a first thrust with a little more force than he’d planned on. As a result, tight hot silk promptly spasmed all around his cock, dancing pressure on his nerves and pulsing dizziness straight into his mind.

Beyond the haze, Lancelot was crying out, rattling and rasping with a bone-deep soreness that curled around an equally strong longing. Sudden as a burnt-through log snapping down on a fire, he jerked into a frenetic thrashing that infected Arthur with its fever, that sank his teeth into his lower lip because that was the only way he could hold to any sense of rhythm. And even that ancient, instinctive beat was fast falling from his loosening fingers as he groped for holds on Lancelot, as his fingers found an insane, unbelievable handful of stiff flesh and took it in a familiar grip, as Lancelot clenched him in return and dragged Arthur after him. As always.

It was anyone’s guess how they kept from falling off the bed, or breaking the world, or doing much else except puddling boneless around each other. Lancelot couldn’t even squirm off Arthur, but could only tremble and whine till Arthur recovered enough to pull out his prick. Then Lancelot spread over Arthur as spilled wine spread over a table and merely breathed.

When Arthur had judged nearly a quarter-hour had passed with no movement or speech from Lancelot, he became a bit concerned. Lightly touching Lancelot’s shoulder only earned him a muffled mumbling—not even the slightest quivering. “Lancelot?”

More mumbling. Without any apparent impetus, the other man slid so his face was hidden in Arthur’s neck.


Though Arthur still couldn’t hear the other man, he could make out the words mouthed against his throat.

Fine. You can do it. Lucky bastard.

And Arthur laughed, even though it ached parts of him to do so. “I think so, too.”