Tangible Schizophrenia


Lays of the Land

Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: See individual drabbles.
Pairing: See individual drabbles.
Feedback: What was good, what was bad, what was just ugly, etc.
Disclaimer: Versions didn’t originate with me.
Summary: A few trills from here and there.


Dining Arrangements: G, Arthur/Lancelot, for dea_liberty

Lancelot cocked his head and squinted, then straightened. His face was carefully blank. “It’s round.”

“Exactly. There is no head or end, and thus there is no one seat that ranks better than another. That’s the point of a round table.” Arthur seemed oddly enthusiastic about something as ordinary as a piece of furniture. But then, he always did see beyond what normal people bothered to look at.

And Lancelot was forever trying to remind Arthur that looking above the ground didn’t mean it disappeared. “Well, if it makes you happy. But I’d better still be sitting next to you.”

* * *

Professionalism: G, Lancelot and Tristan, for talisan

After reporting to Arthur, Tristan headed for the stables to see to his horse. When he found Lancelot already taking care of that, he didn’t assume it was necessarily an expression of generosity.

The other man curried the horse using long, hard strokes that luckily, the stallion seemed to enjoy. “Interesting that he never questions what you say. I’d wager that you could tell him the Woads were in his chambers, and he’d believe you.”

“I don’t tell him about anything he can’t check for himself.” Tristan walked around his horse, giving it a pat on the nose as he went, and smoothly took over the brushing. “And he never asks for my opinion. From me he only wants the facts.”

* * *

Thoughtfulness: PG-13, Lancelot/Galahad, for Romilly McAran

Hard and fast, splinters in the palms gripping the rail and clothes still on. It’s only flesh twisted around till release is wrung out, emptying Galahad so his spleen and choler can build up once more.

Afterward, he pauses in straightening his sword-straps and has to ask. “Why me?”

Lancelot slashes the back of his hand across his mouth, which only aggravates the bruising of his lips. “Because you’re nothing like him. That way, I can’t possibly get confused.”

“That’s polite,” Galahad snorts, and carefully does not say he agrees.

“I didn’t mean it politely.” And the other man’s heel digs a small hollow in the dirt when he turns away.

* * *

Fidelity: G, Arthur/Guinevere, for sasha_b

To Guinevere, the most important thing in her life is Britain. It has given her life, nourished her, seen her grown tall and proud and strong, and she owes it everything. When wounds are inflicted on it, she feels the scars carve their way beneath her skin.

But lately, Britain has been changing. The green of the leaves she can find in a glance, the black of the earth seems to merge with the hair nestled so trustingly in her hands. The harshness of the wind cuts like a sword, and the softness of the moonlight sometimes brushes fingertips over her cheek at night.

The land or the man—are they truly the same? Can she hold both without being disloyal? That is what troubles her now.

* * *

End of the Storms: R, Tristan/Gawain, stuck inside due to heavy rains, for alethialia

The rain is an endless drumming, a monotone sound that, far from being soothing, grates because it goes on and on and never seems to crescendo. And no matter where Tristan goes, he cannot escape it into silence. He restlessly wanders through the garrison, wondering how Dagonet copes, and curls his nails into his palms till the hurt briefly overcomes the noise.

When Gawain catches him, in some dark forgotten corner that still rings with the pattering of the rain, the other man doesn’t try to pry Tristan’s hands open. Instead, he plies Tristan with sweet mouth and warm-raspy palms, with breath that quickens into rags. He fucks Tristan up against the wall, pushing everything away from them in a sharp, beautiful climax of heat and movement and intimacy.

And Tristan spreads his hands over Gawain’s back.