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small_gifts2010-01-05 06:50 pm
lady-luthienne.livejournal.com) wrote in small_gifts2010-01-05 06:50 pm
Bonus Fic: Where I Follow You'll Go, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rhye
Title: Where I Follow You’ll Go
Author: Serenity Song /lady_luthienne
Recipient:rhye
Rating: PG
Highlight for Warnings: * Dominance/submission, plotlessness, unbetaed. *
Word Count: just over 900
Summary: A post-Hogwarts evening in the life of R/S.
Author's notes: Title from a line in the Howie Day song
Collide.
Forrhye who wanted some everyday, nonsmutty D/s, especially with leash and collar. rhye I hope this is something like what you were looking for. Happy New Year!
Disclaimer: Characters and universe not mine.
~~~~~~~
When, at half past six, Sirius hears the clank of a key in the lock, his eyes jump from ‘A Rough Reference of Little-Known Ancient Glyphs and Grams’ to fix on the hallway door. For a second, as always happens in reaction to that particular sound, he finds himself holding his breath. Then the lock clicks and the handle turns, and he knows that when the door swings open he’ll see the only other person whose hand that key is charmed to obey.
In an instant he is up and across the cramped living room, book sliding from his lap to the already cluttered floor, his levitating tray of ink, quills, and still-drying parchment landing more or less safely on the sofa. He embraces Remus, smacking an exuberant kiss onto his chin, reaching for something hanging on the wall behind him.
By the time Remus pulls back, laughing, the handle of a leash is being pressed into his palm.
“Hello Remus,” says Remus ironically. “How was *your* day? Long? Tiring? Would you like to have a lie down? A massage?”
“Please?” Sirius aims for piteous, but ends up falling somewhere near vaguely pathetic.
Remus pretends to think, slipping the red leather loop over his wrist and lazily swinging the strap back and forth. Sirius’ eyes track its motion. Back and forth.
“What have you been doing?” he asks.
“Translation,” reports Sirius promptly.
Remus looks unimpressed.
“From burial inscriptions.”
Remus winces in sympathy. His lips purse. He seems to be considering the proposition.
Sirius waits. He doesn’t ask Remus what *he’s* been doing. Remus has been doing ‘fieldwork’ and they don’t elaborate on ‘fieldwork’, unless of course they’re assigned to the same mission, and even then they try not to discuss it once it’s over.
He could, if he wished, ask *how* Remus has been doing, but the answer to that question would likely be as evasive as to the first, though for different reasons. So he searches with attentive eyes the grime smudged along the worrylines of Remus’ brow, with cautious fingers the sore muscles of his forearm, and discovers by their honesty that Remus is indeed tired, but unwilling to give in to it, yet.
Remus declares finally, “Just a short one,” catches up the clip end of the leash and snaps it onto the steel ring in Sirius’ collar, right next to the sturdy buckle inscribed: ‘Padfoot’, (and in smaller print) ‘Mr R.J.L.’ “Aren’t you going to change?”
“Must I?”
Remus grins, eyes lighting. He taps the length of the leash with his wand so that it slowly fades, blending with the skin of his hand, the somewhat dingy wallpaper behind him, and the blue cotton fabric of Sirius’s shirt. “Let’s go.”
They descend two narrow flights of stairs, single file, and move out onto the street, where a breeze lifts and tosses their hair, breathing wakefulness onto their faces, smelling of city rain. Sirius stays at Remus’ heels, a pace behind and to the side, so that the disillusioned leash is stretched between them. They can’t touch freely in such a public place, but the barely-there pressure of the collar along the back of his neck and the slight weight of the metal clip warming against his throat make Sirius feel secure. If he squints, he can see with each step the air shimmer in a line that connects them.
At a busy corner, Remus jiggles the leash. Sirius steps up beside him, and they cross together.
“Let’s get something fried,” suggests Sirius, inhaling deeply.
Remus says, “Only if we get some fresh fruit, too.”
*
Back at home, Remus removes the leash with tender hands, replacing it on its hook by the door. They spread their dinner on the low living room table, eating in comfortable silence. Remus sits on the sofa, skimming through the evening’s Muggle news, passing each section of interest, as he finishes, to Sirius at his feet.
Gradually, Sirius’ head sinks to Remus’ knee, his cheek rubbing over time-softened denim. Remus smiles down at him affectionately, then, glancing absently around the messy room, his expression shifts to amused exasperation. When his gaze returns to Sirius it is reprimanding.
“But,” Sirius protests, “I’m just going to use the same books tomorrow.”
Remus continues to stare, unblinking.
Sirius heaves a dramatic sigh, but gets up to collect his discarded texts and papers while Remus goes to start some water heating. Having stacked these neatly on one end of the table, he banishes their empty food containers to the garbage and pads into the tiny kitchen just in time to grab the temperamental kettle, a housewarming gift from James, before it can begin shrieking complaints at being boiled too long. As he pours into the mugs Remus has set out, the kettle manages a resentful hiss. Sirius thinks it may actually enjoy the occasional chance to throw a fit.
“This weekend,” he tells it, “when the Potters are over.”
In the bedroom, Remus sits propped against the headboard. He smiles gratefully when Sirius hands him his tea and slips another pillow behind his shoulders. The tawny hair at his temples is damp, making it a shade darker than usual. His face is clean and clear once more.
“Would you like a massage?” offers Sirius with almost flawless solemnity.
Laughing, Remus crooks a finger through the gleaming ring of his collar, tugging playfully. “Always thinking of me, aren’t you?”
Author: Serenity Song /
lady_luthienneRecipient:
rhyeRating: PG
Highlight for Warnings: * Dominance/submission, plotlessness, unbetaed. *
Word Count: just over 900
Summary: A post-Hogwarts evening in the life of R/S.
Author's notes: Title from a line in the Howie Day song
Collide.
For
rhye who wanted some everyday, nonsmutty D/s, especially with leash and collar. rhye I hope this is something like what you were looking for. Happy New Year!Disclaimer: Characters and universe not mine.
When, at half past six, Sirius hears the clank of a key in the lock, his eyes jump from ‘A Rough Reference of Little-Known Ancient Glyphs and Grams’ to fix on the hallway door. For a second, as always happens in reaction to that particular sound, he finds himself holding his breath. Then the lock clicks and the handle turns, and he knows that when the door swings open he’ll see the only other person whose hand that key is charmed to obey.
In an instant he is up and across the cramped living room, book sliding from his lap to the already cluttered floor, his levitating tray of ink, quills, and still-drying parchment landing more or less safely on the sofa. He embraces Remus, smacking an exuberant kiss onto his chin, reaching for something hanging on the wall behind him.
By the time Remus pulls back, laughing, the handle of a leash is being pressed into his palm.
“Hello Remus,” says Remus ironically. “How was *your* day? Long? Tiring? Would you like to have a lie down? A massage?”
“Please?” Sirius aims for piteous, but ends up falling somewhere near vaguely pathetic.
Remus pretends to think, slipping the red leather loop over his wrist and lazily swinging the strap back and forth. Sirius’ eyes track its motion. Back and forth.
“What have you been doing?” he asks.
“Translation,” reports Sirius promptly.
Remus looks unimpressed.
“From burial inscriptions.”
Remus winces in sympathy. His lips purse. He seems to be considering the proposition.
Sirius waits. He doesn’t ask Remus what *he’s* been doing. Remus has been doing ‘fieldwork’ and they don’t elaborate on ‘fieldwork’, unless of course they’re assigned to the same mission, and even then they try not to discuss it once it’s over.
He could, if he wished, ask *how* Remus has been doing, but the answer to that question would likely be as evasive as to the first, though for different reasons. So he searches with attentive eyes the grime smudged along the worrylines of Remus’ brow, with cautious fingers the sore muscles of his forearm, and discovers by their honesty that Remus is indeed tired, but unwilling to give in to it, yet.
Remus declares finally, “Just a short one,” catches up the clip end of the leash and snaps it onto the steel ring in Sirius’ collar, right next to the sturdy buckle inscribed: ‘Padfoot’, (and in smaller print) ‘Mr R.J.L.’ “Aren’t you going to change?”
“Must I?”
Remus grins, eyes lighting. He taps the length of the leash with his wand so that it slowly fades, blending with the skin of his hand, the somewhat dingy wallpaper behind him, and the blue cotton fabric of Sirius’s shirt. “Let’s go.”
They descend two narrow flights of stairs, single file, and move out onto the street, where a breeze lifts and tosses their hair, breathing wakefulness onto their faces, smelling of city rain. Sirius stays at Remus’ heels, a pace behind and to the side, so that the disillusioned leash is stretched between them. They can’t touch freely in such a public place, but the barely-there pressure of the collar along the back of his neck and the slight weight of the metal clip warming against his throat make Sirius feel secure. If he squints, he can see with each step the air shimmer in a line that connects them.
At a busy corner, Remus jiggles the leash. Sirius steps up beside him, and they cross together.
“Let’s get something fried,” suggests Sirius, inhaling deeply.
Remus says, “Only if we get some fresh fruit, too.”
Back at home, Remus removes the leash with tender hands, replacing it on its hook by the door. They spread their dinner on the low living room table, eating in comfortable silence. Remus sits on the sofa, skimming through the evening’s Muggle news, passing each section of interest, as he finishes, to Sirius at his feet.
Gradually, Sirius’ head sinks to Remus’ knee, his cheek rubbing over time-softened denim. Remus smiles down at him affectionately, then, glancing absently around the messy room, his expression shifts to amused exasperation. When his gaze returns to Sirius it is reprimanding.
“But,” Sirius protests, “I’m just going to use the same books tomorrow.”
Remus continues to stare, unblinking.
Sirius heaves a dramatic sigh, but gets up to collect his discarded texts and papers while Remus goes to start some water heating. Having stacked these neatly on one end of the table, he banishes their empty food containers to the garbage and pads into the tiny kitchen just in time to grab the temperamental kettle, a housewarming gift from James, before it can begin shrieking complaints at being boiled too long. As he pours into the mugs Remus has set out, the kettle manages a resentful hiss. Sirius thinks it may actually enjoy the occasional chance to throw a fit.
“This weekend,” he tells it, “when the Potters are over.”
In the bedroom, Remus sits propped against the headboard. He smiles gratefully when Sirius hands him his tea and slips another pillow behind his shoulders. The tawny hair at his temples is damp, making it a shade darker than usual. His face is clean and clear once more.
“Would you like a massage?” offers Sirius with almost flawless solemnity.
Laughing, Remus crooks a finger through the gleaming ring of his collar, tugging playfully. “Always thinking of me, aren’t you?”