Narancia Ghirga

The collar looked ridiculous on him.

That was the first thing Narancia said when you buckled it around his neck — voice high with disbelief, ears already pink, fingers hovering near the leather like he couldn’t decide whether to yank it off or adjust it. The leash hung slack between you for half a second before you gave it a light tug. The sound he made was pure startled offense.

“Hey—! You can’t just—”

Another gentle pull cut him off. Narancia’s knees hit the edge of the mattress as he was drawn forward, purple hair falling into his eyes, the metal ring of the collar clicking softly under his throat. For a moment he just knelt there on the bed, glaring up at you with his face on fire, the leash resting taut across the short distance between your hand and his neck.

“...This is so stupid,” he muttered.

His voice didn’t sound convinced.

You told him to sit properly. Narancia held the glare for another three seconds before his body obeyed anyway, sinking down so his ass rested on his heels, hands hovering uncertainly over his thighs. The collar made every small movement feel more obvious. Every swallow. Every restless shift of his shoulders. When you clipped the leash to a steady hold and stepped back to look at him, he squirmed like the attention alone was already too much.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mumbled. “Feels weird.”

“Weird how?”

“...Like you’re actually takin’ it serious.” His fingers flexed against his thighs. “Like I’m really supposed to just... stay like this.”

You told him that was exactly what he was supposed to do.

Narancia’s ears went redder. For a stubborn, restless person, he lasted longer than expected — back straight, eyes flicking between your face and the floor, the leash still held loosely in your hand. But stillness was never his strong suit. After less than a minute his weight started shifting from knee to knee. His hands kept moving. A soft, frustrated sound built in his throat when the collar prevented him from leaning forward the way he wanted.

“This is hard,” he admitted finally, almost accusing. “Just sittin’ here. Feels like I should be doin’ somethin’.”

You stepped closer and rested two fingers under his chin, tipping his face up. The leash went slack for a second, then tightened again when you stepped back and he tried to follow the contact without meaning to. The soft jerk of the collar made him inhale sharply.

“Oh,” he said, very quietly.

Something in his expression changed — still flustered, still pink, but sharper around the edges with interest he clearly hadn’t planned on feeling. When you told him to present his hands, he lifted them without thinking, palms up, wrists relaxed. The obedience landed in his own body harder than the command had. You could see it hit him: the little full-body awareness of what he was doing, kneeling there with a collar on, hands offered, leash trailing from his throat.

“...This is doin’ somethin’ to my head,” Narancia muttered. “Just so you know.”

You praised him for the honesty.

The effect was immediate. His shoulders dropped a fraction, the tension in his spine loosening into something warmer and more pliant. When you ran your fingers through his hair and called him good, the sound he made was soft and punched-out, almost confused by how much it affected him. His eyes went a little unfocused. The next time you stepped back, he stayed exactly where you’d left him instead of fidgeting after you.

“Oh my god,” he whispered under his breath. “I’m actually doin’ this.”

You took him through simple commands after that.

Sit. Stay. Chin up. Hands behind your back.

Every time he obeyed, you gave him something for it — fingers in his hair, a quiet “good,” the brief warm pressure of your palm against his cheek. Narancia soaked up every bit of it like he’d been starving for the structure. The longer it went on, the less he complained. His breathing slowed. His restless energy funneled down into the narrow focus of waiting for the next instruction, purple eyes tracking your movements with open, impatient attention.

When you finally told him he could lean against your leg, he practically melted into the contact.

His forehead pressed to your thigh, collar shifting with the movement, leash pooling loosely across the floor. One of his hands lifted like he wanted to grab onto you and then hesitated, hovering until you told him he was allowed. The second permission landed he gripped the fabric of your pants and held on, a low, content sound vibrating against your leg.

“This is messed up,” he mumbled into your thigh, voice gone soft and a little floaty. “Why does this feel good. It’s just a collar. It’s just—”

You gave the leash a tiny upward tug.

Narancia’s breath hitched. His fingers tightened. Whatever complaint he’d been building died into a quiet, needy noise as his head tipped obediently with the pressure of the collar. When you stroked the back of his neck just above the leather, his whole body shivered.

“Good boy,” you said quietly.

The sound that left him was wrecked.

Narancia pressed his face harder against your leg like he could hide the way the praise had just torn through him, but his body gave everything away — the way his shoulders curled in, the restless shift of his knees, the soft, helpless noise he made when your fingers kept moving through his hair. The collar kept him right there, a warm constant weight around his throat every time he breathed.

After a minute he spoke again, muffled and reluctant and already half-gone.

“...Can I stay like this a little longer?”

You told him yes.

Narancia exhaled like he’d been bracing for refusal, then settled more fully against you, cheek pressed to your thigh, one hand still fisted lightly in your clothes. Every so often the leash would shift with the rise and fall of his breathing. Every so often you’d stroke his hair or rest a hand on the back of his neck and feel him lean into it without hesitation.

The boy who couldn’t sit still for five minutes in a normal conversation stayed on his knees without complaint, collared and quiet and warm against your leg, only moving when you guided him with the leash or the soft weight of your palm.

At some point he tilted his face up just enough to look at you, eyes dark and hazy, mouth slightly open.

“If you tell anybody I liked this,” he said, voice rough, “I’ll deny it till I die.”

Then he let his head drop back against your thigh, the collar gleaming softly at his throat, and made no attempt to move away.