[It's only his grip on Mettaton's neck that keeps him from crying out in turn, and though it takes considerable effort to not let go, the desire to keep holding onto him outweighed all else. But an intensifying shudder courses through his body at each reaction on his lover's part- each writhe, each sound, each time he clutched at him.
There's still sound, stifled into the bite, poorly muffled and ragged. When he can bite no harder, he grinds into him instead, the sort of thing that would leave deep, angry bruises on a normal form. And when he briefly lets go in order to pick a new location, the Ascian is panting, enjoying even the ache in his jaw. But more than anything, enjoying the strength of Mettaton's response, the way he could feel every shudder as though it were his own, how seemingly uncontrolled he could render him. And how much more of him he wanted to see like this- wracked with sensation. To give him as much of himself as he was taking in turn.
...How fond Emet-Selch was of him struck the Ascian then. A weighty feeling.
Still dizzied by it, he presses on, moving to the other side of Mettaton's neck for another bite, no lighter than before. No less insistent, as though he could leave some impression, some indentation on him if he only tried hard enough. As though he could hold him in place, restrain him through jaws and force of will. The more Mettaton responded, the more he snapped down, more than a trace animalistic- though it wasn't as if he could damage, much less tear a piece of him off. But the intent, the desire to possess was in evidence. To take some part of him with him.
The need of his cock was almost a backdrop, though one that spurred on the rest of his desires. His hips jerk against Mettaton's thighs, unsteady, distracted by bites. Distracted as well by the investigations of Mettaton's hands, twitching in place from the feeling, as though torn between pressing up into the contact, or continuing to seek out more friction for his cock.
The grip on his ass, pushing him closer seems to encourage the latter, and he moans against Mettaton's neck, overwhelmed by it all. The stiffness of his arousal pressed between slightly-yielding thighs, the rapidity of his pulse, the determined drag of his teeth into him. Any element on its own would have arrested his attention, but altogether have him pressing closer, pushing Mettaton back against the mattress, wanting every scrap of contact he could claim.]
no subject
There's still sound, stifled into the bite, poorly muffled and ragged. When he can bite no harder, he grinds into him instead, the sort of thing that would leave deep, angry bruises on a normal form. And when he briefly lets go in order to pick a new location, the Ascian is panting, enjoying even the ache in his jaw. But more than anything, enjoying the strength of Mettaton's response, the way he could feel every shudder as though it were his own, how seemingly uncontrolled he could render him. And how much more of him he wanted to see like this- wracked with sensation. To give him as much of himself as he was taking in turn.
...How fond Emet-Selch was of him struck the Ascian then. A weighty feeling.
Still dizzied by it, he presses on, moving to the other side of Mettaton's neck for another bite, no lighter than before. No less insistent, as though he could leave some impression, some indentation on him if he only tried hard enough. As though he could hold him in place, restrain him through jaws and force of will. The more Mettaton responded, the more he snapped down, more than a trace animalistic- though it wasn't as if he could damage, much less tear a piece of him off. But the intent, the desire to possess was in evidence. To take some part of him with him.
The need of his cock was almost a backdrop, though one that spurred on the rest of his desires. His hips jerk against Mettaton's thighs, unsteady, distracted by bites. Distracted as well by the investigations of Mettaton's hands, twitching in place from the feeling, as though torn between pressing up into the contact, or continuing to seek out more friction for his cock.
The grip on his ass, pushing him closer seems to encourage the latter, and he moans against Mettaton's neck, overwhelmed by it all. The stiffness of his arousal pressed between slightly-yielding thighs, the rapidity of his pulse, the determined drag of his teeth into him. Any element on its own would have arrested his attention, but altogether have him pressing closer, pushing Mettaton back against the mattress, wanting every scrap of contact he could claim.]