Tangible Schizophrenia



Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: See below.
Pairing: Varies from drabble to drabble; see individual notes.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Pimpin' my minor fandoms. Some crossovers; again, see individual drabbles.
Summary: Slices into a fractured mind.


Janus: Mort/Mort, PG, for kissesago

It's tough to figure out which parts go with which…persona, never mind trying to twist them loose from each other.

Hair floating through his fingers, Mort thinks, just it did when he rumpled himself decent earlier in the morning. Only the context is all different, and as a writer, he knows that the context is all-important. Lazy awakening contrasted with slow sliding heat, wrapping around all his hot spots, and toothpaste gritting his teeth against slide of tongue that tastes of himself, first flavor he'd ever learned.

Sometimes, he wonders if it'd be any good to undo the tangle of them. And sometimes, he wonders if it'd even be worth trying.


The Inside of a Hat: gen, PG, for ceraelia

And he's the only thing in Mort's life, the only fucking thing that matters any more because he's here and he's there and he's everywhere, every time like Amy never was for the past few years. He's staring from the mirror, strolling in his lazy redneck way behind the wood grain and the wallpaper patterns. His shift-grin-and hello, Flannery darling-slivers itself in the curtain-weave.

Mort stabs and stabs and cuts, but it's never enough. He just can't pin that goddamn Shooter down, can't excise him fast enough, and the bastard keeps on running ahead of him, mocking Mort until it's just-too--much.

Darkness comes, and it's beautiful.


Summoning: Dean Corso [The Ninth Gate]/Mort, PG-13, for dirtybeautiful

Usually, Dean avoids public libraries-not public archives, because there's a rather big difference-like the plague. They're boring.

Then again, it's nice to make a trip into the quiet life every once in a while, even with all the pleasures that he can find on the other side of the gate. For one thing, they don't have nearly as enjoyable psychoses as he can find with humanity.

The man's deceptively frail, rumpled, and he wears glasses. They look better on the floor, folded beneath Dean's pair as Mort Rainey is trapped beneath Dean. Fingernails scrabble at Dean's back, and a hot mouth savages Dean's neck just as roughly as his current possession of the man is. His eternal possession, actually; he should mention that to Mort some time.

Dean takes a moment to smile at the half-open book on certain tarot-card lay-outs on the floor, and then he mashes his mouth down on Mort's. "Thanks for calling me up."

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