(no subject)

[nny]

Damn damn damn damn damn.

I am a sucker for collar fic. Absolutely and completely. The mere mention of one makes me gooey. Can anyone reccomend me any? I don't care about pairing, but I'd rather not hardcore BDSM, just collars. If you can't rec one, drabble for me. Please?

*flutters eyelashes sweetly*

This post was brought to you by the letters G-U-H and the LJ user copperbadge. Damn the man.

Comments

[girlwiththebook.livejournal.com]

http://www.digitalcandy.net/users/shaenie/momento.html
- Viggo takes pictures of Dom in a collar, for Billy.

hope this is good enough for ya. :o)

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Drabble. All right then. Typing straight into comment box. Will probably end up absurdly fluffy. Just so you know.

~

Crowley liked to maintain - mostly as a joke, though, because he wasn't about to complain - that it would have suited him much better. Cat's eyes, he said teasingly. To which Aziraphale said mock-sternly that the demon didn't need anything to make him more catlike.

They found it at an odd little market in an odd little town, tucked away behind an odd little church. Crowley always felt itchy being that close to churches, and he wandered around fitfully picking things up and putting them down again and amusing himself by drawing moustaches on the concrete cherubs with a Magic Marker that he stole from one of the stalls. So it was the angel who saw it first, digging idly through a box of odds and ends once Crowley had forcibly dragged him away from the second-hand book stall on the premise that the owner was about to start worshipping him and that would be idolatry, wouldn't it? Tut tut, angel.

Aziraphale had tried to glare at him from behind a stack of dusty leather covers, but had given up fairly quickly.

There wasn't really much of value in the little box - oddly shaped paper clips, a few polished stones, some faded felt Christmas ornaments whose sequins were hanging off them. Aziraphale wasn't quite sure why he picked it out - maybe it was the colour. It was a lovely shade of cornflower blue, greyed with dust that brushed off easily. He ran a finger along it absently and handed over fifty pence, and then went to find Crowley.

"What is it?"

"What does it look like, my dear?"

"Why did you buy a ribbon, angel?"

"Why not?"

Crowley looked at him balefully, figuring that if he made any more comments then the angel might take it off. Which would be a pity.

"'s nice," he said eventually. "Matches your eyes, sort of."

"Hmm." Aziraphale looked pleased.

"It's missing something, though."

"Excuse me?"

Crowley managed to look smug and innocent at the same time. Aziraphale raised a wary hand to his neck.

Ting.

"That was entirely unnecessary," he said reprovingly.

"Of course it wasn't. Now you can't sneak up on me."

"Stop that!" Aziraphale batted the demon's finger away from the bell.

Ting.

"Come on, it's adorable..."

"Stop it!"

Crowley made a decent shot at innocence again. "Why, angel, my finger appears to have become stuck in your collar..." He tugged slightly.

Ting.

Aziraphale went pink and glared at him. "Now you're just being ridiculous, Crowley."

Crowley tugged again, a little bit harder, and this time the angel didn't get a chance to say anything at all.

~

Bonus points to me for managing to put the thing on Paul Bettany, yeah?

:D

[aj_crawley]

W.KJA.DFSN.KLGTI

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Er... all right then?

*looks worried*

[aj_crawley]

I love you.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

She lives!

*blushes*

[clumsy_auror]

*melts*

[villainny.livejournal.com]

I love you. You know this, right?

[fahye.livejournal.com]

<3 Any time, my dear.

[tapedeck.livejournal.com]

*squawk*

Oh, my my my.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Hey, an Aussie! Or, at least, someone located in a convenient timezone! Nice to meet you :)

I shall refrain from spewing forth political woe at you, as I try to only inflict that upon my friends list.

[tapedeck.livejournal.com]

Yep, here in rainy miserable Queensland.

I'm still in that blank period where you walk around and ask the walls exactly what the hell just happened.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Down here in Canberra we try and find comfort in our firmly Labor seat, but with Parliament House just up the road it isn't doing much good.

If only everyone was as sensible as the Australian LJ population, it appears we wouldn't have this kind of problem.

[schiarire.livejournal.com]

You.

I.

Abwuh.

[tropes.livejournal.com]

*gurgles*

[la-moulinette.livejournal.com]

I would like to point out that this is Fahye's fault. Also Ji's, for encouraging it. And indeed, I am aware of how sick I am. Thanks. Yeah. Yes. Aware. Also, the collars are metaphorical. Sorry! But since when do I write anything that's not. And no sex, again sorry, it's just the mood I'm in. And it is crack. And I typed it in this box, so none of teh edit.

*****************************************
In the beginning there are long walks in the Luxembourg Gardens, during the last warm days of March-that-will-be-Germinal-soon. Maximilien keeps dogs: a small one, antic and excitable, called Broo, and later the dignified, sober, and more appropriate Brount. Both dogs adore him. Animals have always loved Maxime. He buys them small leather collars which he constantly, patiently is forced to replace. He has an irrational fear that they will run off and forget him. He doesn't trust anything that is not collared. He has too much experience with the world for that.

Measure the years in encounters along these slowly emptying paths: At first Camille, lovely and ridiculous, tripping over his overeager feet in an effort to win Lucile Duplessis' hand. After the wedding the two of them went walking together, an era when Lucile would write in her diary simply: To the Luxembourg. With Camille and it was all she needed to say. The two of them speaking a secret language studded with nicknames and endearments like code, as though they were exchanging letters that no one else on earth knew how to read. Maxime had held the canopy as the two of them were united for life, in a cathedral in December where they took upon themselves their binding love, their oath, their collar.

Another year: Antoine standing in November's first-fallen snow, his breath like warm white smoke when he laughs. Startling, when Antoine laughs that strange uncertain laugh of his, because he doesn't know how to laugh (not really) and when one breaks through the brittle and icy facade, what's underneath is turbulent and beautiful and fey. It unnerves Maxime, the first time it happens. He doesn't like it. He knows Antoine; he likes Antoine; he doesn't need to witness any more than that. He prefers them to stay in their safe, enclosed little spaces, as though they were not free men, as though they were collared.

And it is the old, painful story in Thermidor of that year. "Shoot yourself," Le Bas said. "It's what a Stoic would do." And Robespierre tried, but in the end he lived, going to the scaffold with his head cradled, collared in a sling. The executioner ripped it off before the blade fell, and he died screaming. The chaos he'd made of his head, the pain of bones in a brutal free-fall. No controls left; no doctrine; no structure at all. The last image he sees, curiously, is the Luxembourg: on a clear summer night, when twilight is settling in violet over the velveteen boughs of the trees. He is walking towards the horizon, and his heart freezes with a sudden burst of emotion, and he cannot bring himself to say what it is although somewhere in the ether the answers comes whispering to him: freedom.

Vendemiare: The first leaves are falling. The sky is darkening, and the wind is sad. Eleonore takes the dog for long walks during the hours when the cathedral bells have started tolling and the city is tearing itself apart, and she hears the noise far in the distance, and soon young men and women will begin wearing ribbons like guillotine lines: like collars: like cut throats. Brount races away into the gathering dusk. She watches, waiting in the chilly silence.

The paths of the Luxembourg are empty, this year.

[villainny.livejournal.com]

Everything you write affects me, even when I don't really know anything about it, half-catching references and such. You have such talent, and now my heart hurts. Thank you, lady.

[la-moulinette.livejournal.com]

Merci/De rien.

[iibnf.livejournal.com]

calemiri has a fic called Collared.

[ashen_key]

Ok, writting this as I go, no idea WHERE it is going, or even what I am writing about. You've been warned.

Collars are a symbol of ownership, everyone knows that.

He stands in the shadows, watching the story play out on the stage from behind, the play of shadows on the ropes and the curtains more compelling then the diva currently singing of her love. The young man, beautiful as a naive fallen angel, watches and waits. He knows what comes next, has been hearing it and seeing it and watching his lover get stressed and worried for it for weeks.

He waits, and watches, and fingers the black collar against his skin. The distinctive music of the organ starts, and the young man smiles. He can see the long fingers pressing the keys, sliding here and gliding there and those fingers don't have to touch him to make his heart start to thud and the coil of desire begin in him. But those figners, currently making the music, do touch him, do carress him. They belong to a man who kisses him, who used those graceful fingers buckle the collar on and tremble at the sight of the smooth black collar against skin that darkens and lightens with the light. They trembled too, with what the whole beautiful, kinky gesture meant.

For, as everyone knows, collars are a sign of ownership, and Zacharias Zesk owns Andre Weber as clearly as if he paid for him.

[villainny.livejournal.com]

...hell yeah, he does.

And you Ownzors me.

fuuuuuuuck.

*squeeshes*

[ashen_key]

You liked it! Whee! *dances*

...does this mean you should get me a collar?

[chains-of-irony.livejournal.com]

The shoebox_project has almost continuous mentions of Sirius in a collar, but you've probably read it...