In Your Aspect and Your Eyes
Pairing: America/Molossia.
Rating: R.
Warnings: Gentle petplay, possible underage (Molossia is physically/mentally 16).
Summary: When it gets too much for Molossia, he goes to America and gives up his words for the security of the collar around his neck.
Written for the Kink Meme.
Molossia shows up on America's doorstep, dusty from the road, with the sun behind him and a satchel over his shoulder, and a slightly uncertain, almost timid look in his eyes.
"Can I, uh," he says quietly, scuffing his feet. "Can I wear the collar?"
America says nothing, and Molossia looks up at him almost shyly. America meets his grey eyes, and the trust he sees there has heat warming in his blood.
Trust, and trust; Molossia entrusting him with this, with the care of his body and his mind; Molossia trusting in America's own wants; and trusting that America will trust him in turn, that Molossia knows his own needs and desires. Trust and want, and heat rising between them in the conduit of their shared gaze; Molossia wanting to give America this, America wanting to prove himself worthy of this, and both of them reading each other in the gaze that burns so hot between them, until America thinks he can feel Molossia's thoughts as his own, twining alongside his.
"Yes," he replies, and sees the heat in the convulsion of Molossia's throat as he swallows.
He leads him upstairs, and the air is cool, here, spring settling into summer in the north, cool enough to play in without heat laying them low, warm enough to be comfortable around Molossia's skin.
He leads him into their ritual room, and oh, America can feel little shivers, now, anticipation thrumming under his skin, and he can sense it tightening Molossia's muscles as well, a bare pace behind him, in this little bare room with its single window and its simple wooden chest against the wall.
America opens the chest, and removes the contents, placing them carefully on the floor, apart from the simple brown collar. He waits.
Molossia undresses neatly, not-slowly and not-quickly, placing each item in the chest as he removes it; his satchel, his shoes, his jacket and trousers and shirt, his socks and his underwear; and stands naked before America, unashamed.
America looks at Molossia, bare and trusting, his cock already starting to stir between his legs, his eyes that will not quite meet America's; and oh, there is something softening and open in Molossia's face already, something vulnerable and willing to be vulnerable; something that America alone is allowed to have and will never stop cherishing. Something that Molossia gives him freely; something that America can only give freely in return for.
America says, "Down," and Molossia's eyes slip-flutter almost shut; he looks at America beneath his eyelids, and he sinks to his knees, easy, willing. Sinks down and rests his hands on his thighs and tips his head back to bare his throat to America, to offer his neck for America's collar.
The collar is plain brown leather, lined on the inside so as not to chafe, fastened with a simple buckle. Nothing fancy, neither of them likes fancy. The name tag reads 'Mob' under America's name, though America calls him his full name or just 'Mol' equally often. Having Molossia labelled as someone other than himself is part of the attraction, the purpose.
America catches Molossia's gaze as he steps forward to fasten the collar. Something goes out of Molossia as the buckle closes; his body relaxes subtly, easing into a new shape. His eyes still hold America's, and America accepts; Molossia gives him his words, his autonomy, his control, and America accepts them, takes them into himself for safekeeping, so that he may give them back when they are done.
He pulls the tongue of the buckle through the loop. Rests one hand in Molossia's hair. Thumbs his neck and feels him shiver. Molossia's hands slip down his thighs before he catches himself and tightens his back to hold his position.
"Good boy," America says softly, and watches Molossia's eyelids flutter again at the praise. He steps back, and for a moment admires the sight Molossia makes, kneeling naked and aroused on the floor with the sun to light his skin, America's collar snug about his throat, looking up at America with soft reverence in his eyes. His body that he gives to America.
"Heel," he says, and turns. He scoops up some of the items he took from the chest as he passes. He hears Molossia follow him, his weight on his open palms and the thud-scuffle of his knees. Glances down out of the corner of his eye, without seeming to, to see the shift of muscle in Molossia's shoulders, and the relaxed line of his back, and his weight on his knees that says that Molossia is content to follow at America's pace, not shifting up onto the balls of his feet in eagerness. The rock of his hips is small, but even, and kindles a spark of desire in America's groin; he thinks of the times they have done this before, Molossia's hips tilting and his back bowing to let America in, his gasps and whines and the way he braces himself under America.
His steps speed up in anticipation, and America has to check himself, remember to slow down so that Molossia can keep up. It's not that far to the bedroom, but even two hallways feels like too much, when Molossia is like this and America's, and America can't wait to touch him. He holds the door open when they get there, and lets Molossia move past him, before closing it behind them and twisting the latch shut with slightly-quivering fingers.
"Up you get, boy!" he says, grinning. Molossia grins back over his shoulder, and then he hops up onto the bed in an ungainly but effective scramble that pulls the blanket every which way. He rolls over onto his back, splaying his knees wide without a care for the open blind that lets sunlight fall across his body, and his head falls to the side, looking at America with eyes full of desire and a smile still playing around his face. America stays where he is for a moment, still with sudden lust, drinking in the sight -- Molossia's body open and ready, full of want, his cock hard against his stomach and those coltish teenage legs spread wide for him, with the sunlight picking out shades in his hair and exposing every line of him.
"Good boy," he says, and if he wasn't smiling already he would be when Molossia's eyelids flicker at the praise. He crosses the bedroom in a couple of strides and starts setting out the items from the chest on the bedside table. He coils the leather leash slowly around his hand, Molossia staring hungrily, and slides it off onto with a little squeak of leather settling on varnished wood. Molossia's eyes flicker as though he's torn between watching America and staring at the leash, and then the hunger in his face sharpens as America sets down the thick rubber plug, and the bottle of lubricant beside that, and then steps back and begins to undress.
He could take it slow, could draw out the way Molossia watches him, but America wants this as much as Molossia does, and he's never been one to draw out an experience when he could dive right into it, really. America undresses quickly, draping his clothes carelessly over the back of a chair, and when he's naked he picks up the bottle of lubricant and seats himself on the bed beside Molossia.
"You want this," he says softly, "don't you?" Molossia doesn't say anything, because he won't, not with the collar -- not unless something goes really, really wrong, that is, but that hasn't happened to them yet -- and he doesn't reach up to grab America's shoulders, which means he's in deep, already, even though America's barely touched him, but he rocks his hips up towards America and spreads his arms wide to show his agreement. America rests his hand on the inside of Molossia's thigh, strokes his thumb over the softness and the muscle underneath, and gets a little gasp.
He kneels between Molossia's knees, slides his hand steadily up and down over that thigh, making Molossia tremble and pant beneath him, trying to spread his arms and legs impossibly wider. His eyes are locked on America's face, as though America is the only thing in his world. America keeps touching him, grounds him with the touch of skin on skin, while with the other hand he reaches for the bottle. He has to lean forwards. Molossia arches up toward him, seeking more contact.
"Easy, there, boy," America laughs, slicking his fingers as he keeps petting Molossia's knee, and as soon as they're slick enough he drops the bottle without caring where it lands and trails them swiftly down Molossia's abdomen, along the crook of his groin and down through the sensitive crease at the hinge of his thigh. Molossia laughs breathlessly, his leg jumping at the touch -- he's always been ticklish there -- the sound turning suddenly into a gorgeous moan as America finds his goal. America smiles and presses his fingers inside, quickly and surely, and has to hold back a groan himself.
He doesn't need to spend hours on this. Molossia's body welcomes him inside, warm and already relaxed; he stretches easily around America's fingers. They've done this before -- they've done this so often before -- but maybe he'll never stop wondering at how Molossia's body opens up to him, how eagerly he accepts America's fingers and cock. America scissors his fingers, just to feel the muscles give way, and he keeps his eyes open open to watch Molossia's reaction. Molossia smiles, and his spine goes through a little wriggle against the sheets. Without his words, his body says everything that his voice never will.
And says it loudly. America curls his fingers up, a familiar movement, and Molossia arches off the mattress, his stomach muscles going taut, digging his head and shoulders back into the pillow. His mouth gapes open before the deep groan rolls out of him, something straight from the gut and full of unabashed, honest need. America slides his free hand up Molossia's thigh, over his hip, carefully avoiding his cock, and rests it over Molossia's stomach. He pushes down gently, and Molossia goes, settling back to the bed, though the muscles under America's hand still quiver with pleasure. He gives America a wanting look, and America can't stop the laugh that bubbles out of him.
Then he does it again, and this time he can feel Molossia's reaction under him as well as around him, can sense that groan in the vibrations against his hand as well as the sound in his ears. It draws a low sound from America's own lips before he can realise he's making it.
He draws his fingers out, and pulls Molossia's knee up. Molossia's eyes darken with anticipation, and he starts to hook his ankle across America's back, before he remembers and lowers it again with a guilty look. America laughs.
"No need to rush, Mob," he teases, and catches Molossia's eyes again as he guides himself in.
Molossia lets him in. In more ways than one. His body is warm and willing, and folds around America's cock as though this is what he was made for; America could slide in and in forever, lose himself in that supple heat, and never regret it. But as wonderful as Molossia's body feels, it's almost unimportant, set against his eyes. Because America holds Molossia's eyes and Molossia lets him inside, invites him inside, welcomes him into his mind and his soul; lets America see every part of him, touch every part of him, own him completely; he opens himself up and without needing words he says "this is yours," and they are so, so close...
And then the moment breaks apart and it's just them, just their bodies linked together in the afternoon sun, and America moves, relishing the warmth and Molossia's gasps and cries, his hands slipping on sweat-slicked skin.
Molossia comes first, groaning and tensing under America. Then he collapses back to the bed, gasping. America keeps moving, no gentler than before, thrusting into Molossia's limp and tired body until he loses himself in it, spilling into Molossia with his teeth gritted and his fingers digging into Molossia's hip and arm, hard enough that he'll wear the bruises for a week.
He rolls off Molossia as soon as he can remember to do so, and they lie side by side on the bed as their breathing slows.
After a while, when their hearts have calmed, Molossia makes a sleepy noise and curls into America's side. America ruffles his hair, and sits up to reach for the nightstand. That gets Molossia's attention; when America turns back with the plug in his hand, Molossia is already propped up on his knees, wide-eyed and eager.
Sometimes America thinks that this is Molossia's favourite part.
The plug slides in easily, Molossia's body already slick and stretched, and he gives a pleased little hum as the last of it settles inside and his entrance closes around the narrow waist. America shakes his head with a smile, and dresses, and when he's done he clips the leash to Molossia's collar.
"Heel, boy," he says, and Molossia obeys.
***
Molossia has a safe-word. It's 'no'. Technically, anyway.
In practice, Molossia doesn't talk at all, while he wears America's collar. Talking is for humans, and with the leather around his throat, it's one of the things he lets America take care of for him. If it gets to the point where he has to talk, it almost doesn't matter what words he chooses; the simple act of speaking is a reclaiming of his autonomy, a sign that is is no longer comfortable in his helplessness.
They have been doing this for years now, and only once has Molossia spoken while wearing the collar. His trust in America is not ill-founded.
Molossia doesn't speak, but every line of him radiates contentment as he sprawls lazily under America's desk, his shoulders heavy on America's feet, shifting now and again to be more comfortable. His eyelids droop so much that combined with his relaxed limbs, he seems almost half-asleep. For all America knows, he might be, as his thoughts settle into that calm, warm space. The little smile at the corner of his lips is as indolent as the rest of him.
They have been doing this for years, and America keeps working, with only the occasional glance at the clock. Molossia lies under the desk, happy and relaxed, and he will stay there quietly until America is done, and when America is done Molossia will still be there, and bare, and willing. The thought of it used to make America impatient, used to make him rush through his work, but they have been doing this for years, and now America simply enjoys having Molossia at his feet.
It's nice to have some company while he works. America has always liked being around people. Molossia is the best kind of company, because America can talk to him about whatever crosses his mind, and Molossia won't roll his eyes and grumble about how stupid his ideas are, or get into arguments about old history. It's not like America's sensitive or something, he can argue with anyone, but sometimes it's nice to have someone just listen, and Molossia doesn't mind listening. He won't pass on America's chatter, either, so America can ramble freely.
"Some people want to put big glass disks up into orbit," he says excitedly, halfway through the afternoon. "Like sunglasses for the planet! Maybe I could talk Tony into helping, he could take them up in his spaceship!"
Molossia opens his eyes and looks curiously up the side of America's leg.
"Have you met Tony?"America asks. He can't remember
Rating: R.
Warnings: Gentle petplay, possible underage (Molossia is physically/mentally 16).
Summary: When it gets too much for Molossia, he goes to America and gives up his words for the security of the collar around his neck.
Written for the Kink Meme.
Molossia shows up on America's doorstep, dusty from the road, with the sun behind him and a satchel over his shoulder, and a slightly uncertain, almost timid look in his eyes.
"Can I, uh," he says quietly, scuffing his feet. "Can I wear the collar?"
America says nothing, and Molossia looks up at him almost shyly. America meets his grey eyes, and the trust he sees there has heat warming in his blood.
Trust, and trust; Molossia entrusting him with this, with the care of his body and his mind; Molossia trusting in America's own wants; and trusting that America will trust him in turn, that Molossia knows his own needs and desires. Trust and want, and heat rising between them in the conduit of their shared gaze; Molossia wanting to give America this, America wanting to prove himself worthy of this, and both of them reading each other in the gaze that burns so hot between them, until America thinks he can feel Molossia's thoughts as his own, twining alongside his.
"Yes," he replies, and sees the heat in the convulsion of Molossia's throat as he swallows.
He leads him upstairs, and the air is cool, here, spring settling into summer in the north, cool enough to play in without heat laying them low, warm enough to be comfortable around Molossia's skin.
He leads him into their ritual room, and oh, America can feel little shivers, now, anticipation thrumming under his skin, and he can sense it tightening Molossia's muscles as well, a bare pace behind him, in this little bare room with its single window and its simple wooden chest against the wall.
America opens the chest, and removes the contents, placing them carefully on the floor, apart from the simple brown collar. He waits.
Molossia undresses neatly, not-slowly and not-quickly, placing each item in the chest as he removes it; his satchel, his shoes, his jacket and trousers and shirt, his socks and his underwear; and stands naked before America, unashamed.
America looks at Molossia, bare and trusting, his cock already starting to stir between his legs, his eyes that will not quite meet America's; and oh, there is something softening and open in Molossia's face already, something vulnerable and willing to be vulnerable; something that America alone is allowed to have and will never stop cherishing. Something that Molossia gives him freely; something that America can only give freely in return for.
America says, "Down," and Molossia's eyes slip-flutter almost shut; he looks at America beneath his eyelids, and he sinks to his knees, easy, willing. Sinks down and rests his hands on his thighs and tips his head back to bare his throat to America, to offer his neck for America's collar.
The collar is plain brown leather, lined on the inside so as not to chafe, fastened with a simple buckle. Nothing fancy, neither of them likes fancy. The name tag reads 'Mob' under America's name, though America calls him his full name or just 'Mol' equally often. Having Molossia labelled as someone other than himself is part of the attraction, the purpose.
America catches Molossia's gaze as he steps forward to fasten the collar. Something goes out of Molossia as the buckle closes; his body relaxes subtly, easing into a new shape. His eyes still hold America's, and America accepts; Molossia gives him his words, his autonomy, his control, and America accepts them, takes them into himself for safekeeping, so that he may give them back when they are done.
He pulls the tongue of the buckle through the loop. Rests one hand in Molossia's hair. Thumbs his neck and feels him shiver. Molossia's hands slip down his thighs before he catches himself and tightens his back to hold his position.
"Good boy," America says softly, and watches Molossia's eyelids flutter again at the praise. He steps back, and for a moment admires the sight Molossia makes, kneeling naked and aroused on the floor with the sun to light his skin, America's collar snug about his throat, looking up at America with soft reverence in his eyes. His body that he gives to America.
"Heel," he says, and turns. He scoops up some of the items he took from the chest as he passes. He hears Molossia follow him, his weight on his open palms and the thud-scuffle of his knees. Glances down out of the corner of his eye, without seeming to, to see the shift of muscle in Molossia's shoulders, and the relaxed line of his back, and his weight on his knees that says that Molossia is content to follow at America's pace, not shifting up onto the balls of his feet in eagerness. The rock of his hips is small, but even, and kindles a spark of desire in America's groin; he thinks of the times they have done this before, Molossia's hips tilting and his back bowing to let America in, his gasps and whines and the way he braces himself under America.
His steps speed up in anticipation, and America has to check himself, remember to slow down so that Molossia can keep up. It's not that far to the bedroom, but even two hallways feels like too much, when Molossia is like this and America's, and America can't wait to touch him. He holds the door open when they get there, and lets Molossia move past him, before closing it behind them and twisting the latch shut with slightly-quivering fingers.
"Up you get, boy!" he says, grinning. Molossia grins back over his shoulder, and then he hops up onto the bed in an ungainly but effective scramble that pulls the blanket every which way. He rolls over onto his back, splaying his knees wide without a care for the open blind that lets sunlight fall across his body, and his head falls to the side, looking at America with eyes full of desire and a smile still playing around his face. America stays where he is for a moment, still with sudden lust, drinking in the sight -- Molossia's body open and ready, full of want, his cock hard against his stomach and those coltish teenage legs spread wide for him, with the sunlight picking out shades in his hair and exposing every line of him.
"Good boy," he says, and if he wasn't smiling already he would be when Molossia's eyelids flicker at the praise. He crosses the bedroom in a couple of strides and starts setting out the items from the chest on the bedside table. He coils the leather leash slowly around his hand, Molossia staring hungrily, and slides it off onto with a little squeak of leather settling on varnished wood. Molossia's eyes flicker as though he's torn between watching America and staring at the leash, and then the hunger in his face sharpens as America sets down the thick rubber plug, and the bottle of lubricant beside that, and then steps back and begins to undress.
He could take it slow, could draw out the way Molossia watches him, but America wants this as much as Molossia does, and he's never been one to draw out an experience when he could dive right into it, really. America undresses quickly, draping his clothes carelessly over the back of a chair, and when he's naked he picks up the bottle of lubricant and seats himself on the bed beside Molossia.
"You want this," he says softly, "don't you?" Molossia doesn't say anything, because he won't, not with the collar -- not unless something goes really, really wrong, that is, but that hasn't happened to them yet -- and he doesn't reach up to grab America's shoulders, which means he's in deep, already, even though America's barely touched him, but he rocks his hips up towards America and spreads his arms wide to show his agreement. America rests his hand on the inside of Molossia's thigh, strokes his thumb over the softness and the muscle underneath, and gets a little gasp.
He kneels between Molossia's knees, slides his hand steadily up and down over that thigh, making Molossia tremble and pant beneath him, trying to spread his arms and legs impossibly wider. His eyes are locked on America's face, as though America is the only thing in his world. America keeps touching him, grounds him with the touch of skin on skin, while with the other hand he reaches for the bottle. He has to lean forwards. Molossia arches up toward him, seeking more contact.
"Easy, there, boy," America laughs, slicking his fingers as he keeps petting Molossia's knee, and as soon as they're slick enough he drops the bottle without caring where it lands and trails them swiftly down Molossia's abdomen, along the crook of his groin and down through the sensitive crease at the hinge of his thigh. Molossia laughs breathlessly, his leg jumping at the touch -- he's always been ticklish there -- the sound turning suddenly into a gorgeous moan as America finds his goal. America smiles and presses his fingers inside, quickly and surely, and has to hold back a groan himself.
He doesn't need to spend hours on this. Molossia's body welcomes him inside, warm and already relaxed; he stretches easily around America's fingers. They've done this before -- they've done this so often before -- but maybe he'll never stop wondering at how Molossia's body opens up to him, how eagerly he accepts America's fingers and cock. America scissors his fingers, just to feel the muscles give way, and he keeps his eyes open open to watch Molossia's reaction. Molossia smiles, and his spine goes through a little wriggle against the sheets. Without his words, his body says everything that his voice never will.
And says it loudly. America curls his fingers up, a familiar movement, and Molossia arches off the mattress, his stomach muscles going taut, digging his head and shoulders back into the pillow. His mouth gapes open before the deep groan rolls out of him, something straight from the gut and full of unabashed, honest need. America slides his free hand up Molossia's thigh, over his hip, carefully avoiding his cock, and rests it over Molossia's stomach. He pushes down gently, and Molossia goes, settling back to the bed, though the muscles under America's hand still quiver with pleasure. He gives America a wanting look, and America can't stop the laugh that bubbles out of him.
Then he does it again, and this time he can feel Molossia's reaction under him as well as around him, can sense that groan in the vibrations against his hand as well as the sound in his ears. It draws a low sound from America's own lips before he can realise he's making it.
He draws his fingers out, and pulls Molossia's knee up. Molossia's eyes darken with anticipation, and he starts to hook his ankle across America's back, before he remembers and lowers it again with a guilty look. America laughs.
"No need to rush, Mob," he teases, and catches Molossia's eyes again as he guides himself in.
Molossia lets him in. In more ways than one. His body is warm and willing, and folds around America's cock as though this is what he was made for; America could slide in and in forever, lose himself in that supple heat, and never regret it. But as wonderful as Molossia's body feels, it's almost unimportant, set against his eyes. Because America holds Molossia's eyes and Molossia lets him inside, invites him inside, welcomes him into his mind and his soul; lets America see every part of him, touch every part of him, own him completely; he opens himself up and without needing words he says "this is yours," and they are so, so close...
And then the moment breaks apart and it's just them, just their bodies linked together in the afternoon sun, and America moves, relishing the warmth and Molossia's gasps and cries, his hands slipping on sweat-slicked skin.
Molossia comes first, groaning and tensing under America. Then he collapses back to the bed, gasping. America keeps moving, no gentler than before, thrusting into Molossia's limp and tired body until he loses himself in it, spilling into Molossia with his teeth gritted and his fingers digging into Molossia's hip and arm, hard enough that he'll wear the bruises for a week.
He rolls off Molossia as soon as he can remember to do so, and they lie side by side on the bed as their breathing slows.
After a while, when their hearts have calmed, Molossia makes a sleepy noise and curls into America's side. America ruffles his hair, and sits up to reach for the nightstand. That gets Molossia's attention; when America turns back with the plug in his hand, Molossia is already propped up on his knees, wide-eyed and eager.
Sometimes America thinks that this is Molossia's favourite part.
The plug slides in easily, Molossia's body already slick and stretched, and he gives a pleased little hum as the last of it settles inside and his entrance closes around the narrow waist. America shakes his head with a smile, and dresses, and when he's done he clips the leash to Molossia's collar.
"Heel, boy," he says, and Molossia obeys.
***
Molossia has a safe-word. It's 'no'. Technically, anyway.
In practice, Molossia doesn't talk at all, while he wears America's collar. Talking is for humans, and with the leather around his throat, it's one of the things he lets America take care of for him. If it gets to the point where he has to talk, it almost doesn't matter what words he chooses; the simple act of speaking is a reclaiming of his autonomy, a sign that is is no longer comfortable in his helplessness.
They have been doing this for years now, and only once has Molossia spoken while wearing the collar. His trust in America is not ill-founded.
Molossia doesn't speak, but every line of him radiates contentment as he sprawls lazily under America's desk, his shoulders heavy on America's feet, shifting now and again to be more comfortable. His eyelids droop so much that combined with his relaxed limbs, he seems almost half-asleep. For all America knows, he might be, as his thoughts settle into that calm, warm space. The little smile at the corner of his lips is as indolent as the rest of him.
They have been doing this for years, and America keeps working, with only the occasional glance at the clock. Molossia lies under the desk, happy and relaxed, and he will stay there quietly until America is done, and when America is done Molossia will still be there, and bare, and willing. The thought of it used to make America impatient, used to make him rush through his work, but they have been doing this for years, and now America simply enjoys having Molossia at his feet.
It's nice to have some company while he works. America has always liked being around people. Molossia is the best kind of company, because America can talk to him about whatever crosses his mind, and Molossia won't roll his eyes and grumble about how stupid his ideas are, or get into arguments about old history. It's not like America's sensitive or something, he can argue with anyone, but sometimes it's nice to have someone just listen, and Molossia doesn't mind listening. He won't pass on America's chatter, either, so America can ramble freely.
"Some people want to put big glass disks up into orbit," he says excitedly, halfway through the afternoon. "Like sunglasses for the planet! Maybe I could talk Tony into helping, he could take them up in his spaceship!"
Molossia opens his eyes and looks curiously up the side of America's leg.
"Have you met Tony?"America asks. He can't remember