There are a number of reasons that someone collars an animal. One: to keep that animal at bay, to be sure that its very nature is quelled, that it remains unable to harm others. Two: to claim the animal as the property of a human, to ensure that if the animal runs off and is found by another, it will be clear that somewhere, it is owned. Three: ornamental purposes.

—

It's no secret why Mello chose to clasp the tight, slick collar around Matt's neck that night. A combination of all three: the need to own, to quell, to look upon his pet and know that he is beautiful.

And oh, Matty is beautiful. Beautiful when he does nothing at all, simply existing in complete silence, fingers trembling, waiting to be touched. Such a rarity, as Mello would prefer to see him shake, see the pleading look in his eyes that dares not pass his lips in the form of a request. He is beautiful when he sleeps, beautiful when he cries, beautiful when he's forced to his knees, red hair clasped between long, pale fingers.

So fucking beautiful.

Even if he can be a mouthy bitch, sometimes.

—

"Let me up." And this is why the collar is used for quelling.

"You're being difficult for no reason, you know." Mello's hand is tight around the back of the other's neck, squeezing sharp fingers into supple skin, shoving down until red hair is veiling a face pressed down against a filthy wooden floor. "I fucking told you: shut up and I'll let you up."

"Mello, I've got a splinter in my cheek. You're not gonna take me to the doctor if that shit gets infected—let me the fuck up."

"You agreed to this."

"I agreed to the collar."

"Well this is the fucking collar." And when the tip of Mello's boot presses into his pet's ribs, there's a gratifying hiss of discomfort in return. It reverberates through his spine, makes him grin—that maniacal thing that can make Matt come in his pants. "You make everything so much worse on yourself, really."

- —-

"Ah—haaa—" And that, unfortunately, is the owner, pressed back against a stucco wall, his pet's mouth wrapped around his cock, tongue prodding, throat enduring as much as humanly possible. His hips are pinned, and he has no immediate desire to get out of this situation, right now.

He'll punish Matt later.

He'll punish him with the buckle-end of his belt against a sensitive lower back. And Matt isn't getting fucked for days. Maybe weeks. And once he's bound, he'll think about his—

Ohfuck—

—decisions and how they affect other people.

But for now, Mello's coming into a hot, insistent mouth, and he can't even find it in himself to slap the side of his pet's head in a reprimand.

—-

"I was hungry."

"You were selfish."

"You came, though."

"Watch—" A hard, resounding slap is earned, leaving red, angry skin in its wake. "Your fucking mouth."

—

And this is how things exist between owner and pet, for the terms Master and Slave are too tightly bound to be true. Slaves do not rebel against their masters if they value their place. Pets, however, are unpredictable. Feral.