Richie always looks nervous when he’s with Patrick, but the way his breathing picks up and his hands start to shake when Patrick pulls out the collar is something else. The chain links clank in his hands as he unlocks it and holds it out. Richie just looks at it, and Patrick clicks his tongue.
“Not gonna wait all day, Tozier. I told you we’d be doing this.”
Richie licks his lips nervously, and Patrick is almost distracted for a second, thinking about where those lips are going to be next. Richie has gotten very good at sucking cock in their time together. Kid’s a goddamn prodigy. “You didn’t say it would be one of — one of those fucking things. With the prongs.”
Patrick rolls his eyes. “They’re not sharp. They just dig in a little. Make dogs better at listening .” He emphasizes his point with a shake of the collar, the metal rattling in his hands. Richie pokes at one of the prongs, like he’s testing the bluntness, and licks his lips again. Jesus. Patrick needs those around his dick yesterday.
“Fine,” Richie says, “and I better not regret this, motherfucker—”
Patrick is already fastening the collar at the back of his neck, pulling it tight. It’s a good fit. Perfect for him. Richie reaches up to touch it, looking almost shellshocked, and for once he doesn’t seem to have words for the situation.
As entertaining as it is to hear Richie run his mouth, Patrick lives for the moments he can make him shut up. Blissful quiet and the knowledge of how overwhelmed he is, with arousal or fear or both.
Patrick uncoils the leather leash from the pet store bag and clicks the metal clip a couple times before clipping it onto the collar, right at the back of Richie’s neck. Richie just looks at him, eyes wide and still panicked behind his glasses. It’s cute. Patrick pats his cheek and tugs on the leash. “On your knees.”
Without words, without question, Richie drops.
The leash uncoils as he does, hanging slack. Patrick tightens it up in his hand, until he’s tugging on the collar, the prongs digging just a little into the soft flesh of Richie’s neck. Richie lets out a tiny whimper, buried in the back of his throat, his hands clenched into fists by his sides.
With his unoccupied hand, Patrick undoes his jeans and belt and shoves down his underwear. He’s already hard, has been since he pulled out the collar, or maybe even since Richie walked into his room, shaking with fear, knowing exactly what was going to happen.
Richie knows what to do. Patrick just has to lean back against the wall as Richie leans forward and wraps his lips around Patrick’s cock.
As always, Richie takes it like a fucking champ. His dumb fucking mouth, always running, always going, finally quieted and put to its best possible use: taking Patrick’s cock. He takes it all the way into his mouth and barely gags, his eyes rolling back just a little as the head of Patrick’s cock bumps the back of his throat. For a long moment Patrick lets his eyes drift shut and stays in the bliss of Richie’s throat, with the slight motions of his lips and tongue as Richie moves his head a little.
Then he remembers the purpose of this specific blowjob: the leash in his hand. He opens his eyes and takes Richie’s hair in his other hand, angling him up to look into his eyes.
“Be good, or…” He tugs on the leash, the prongs of the collar rattling together. He can see Richie swallowing around his cock, can feel the contractions around the head of his cock and see the collar moving as his throat bobs.
“Mm-hm,” Richie manages around his cock, and Patrick lets go of his hair and loops the leash tighter around his hand. Richie is a perfect gentleman, giving him the usual high-quality head he’s come to expect. Going all the way down till his nose brushes Patrick’s stomach, pulling back and sucking on the head while he pumps his hand down Patrick’s shaft, occasionally making fuck-me eyes up at him. Or terrified eyes. They’re pretty similar, in Patrick’s mind, and they do the same thing to his dick.
It’s good. Great, even. But it’s normal. It’s almost boring, if Patrick could reasonably call a blowjob boring.
So he waits until Richie has him all the way down his throat, and pulls on the leash, lifting him from the back of his neck. The collar tugs at his skin and jerks him back a little and he chokes, coughing around Patrick’s dick in his mouth. He lets it fall out and wipes his mouth, and looks up at Patrick, looking almost offended.
“What the fuck, dude—” he starts, and Patrick tugs the leash again, pulling it up and not letting him down. Cutting off his air. The collar digs into his skin and he goes silent, eyes wide and shocked, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
“Make it goddamn interesting,” Patrick says.
Richie nods as if he understands, and Patrick lets him go. The red marks on his neck where the prongs dug into the flesh are a perfect chain around his throat, and it makes Patrick’s cock jump as Richie is getting his mouth back around it. He wants to pull, to cut off Richie’s breathing as he comes down his throat, to make him gasp and beg.
He can’t do all of those things. Not yet, at least. He’ll get there soon enough, but for now, he has to content himself with imagining it, closing his eyes and imagining Richie’s face draining of colour as his air runs out, Patrick’s come dripping off his lips. Pausing to let him breathe and doing it again, over and over, until he’s crying and bruised.
It’s a good fucking fantasy, and Patrick comes down Richie’s throat, pulling hard on the leash and listening to him choke, imagining purple-black bruises ringing Richie’s neck like a promise.