[A parting lick: the Puca drags his tongue along Emet-Selch's lower lip, firm and full. This body is so fully his that he has no reservations about treating it to any pleasure, tease, damage, indulgence, marking, or otherwise. Their bodies each are possessions, and Emet-Selch's soul is his, too; it follows that his body should be the least of his concerns, though it ranks among Mettaton's top concerns. Concluding this harsh drag of tongue, Mettaton can't help himself when he smiles down at him and gives him a kiss (or three), pressing into him solidly with each. A short, giddy laugh falls upon his exhale: for all that Mettaton's riled up beyond belief in an erotic desire for his Bonded, each kiss is so laden by his love and fuels it in the process that it's an endless loop of experiencing and expending that love, leaving him dizzy with it and smiling further.
As he ducks back down again, he does it with a dreamy sigh. A few kisses spared to his chest, practically following the haunts of that incision down his middle, down his belly, and ending up above Emet-Selch's hips.
The first thing Mettaton feels is the presence of Emet-Selch's erection, painfully aroused as he is, poking directly into his neck. Mettaton hums, drawn to it instantly; his fingers tighten around wrists as his thumbs continue to work into the soft underside of them in fond circles. The idol tips his head somewhat and captures the very tip of his lover's cock between his lips, a slight smacking noise from the way he sucks a small kiss into him. It's an example of how he'll tease his body to his heart's content, too, and Mettaton hums affectionately at how much he knows the gesture will only serve to frustrate. And he's pleased with that, as he gets to work on other parts of his body.
Starting from his hip, Mettaton kisses and kisses, shifting just above the bony protrusion to take more pliant tissue into his mouth. Once more, the idol sucks a bruise into him, one after the other, intent on leaving him with as many as possible while each exhale of his is accompanied by a note of pleasurable fondness. As time goes on, the painful ache of his cock is translated into a controlled heat, one that, were he to feel any sort of direct stimulation, he knows would lead to a slippery descent into voracious hunger. An unstoppable, incurable thirst for contact, one he's only been able to scrape the surface of over this past year, the majority of it concentrated into just a number of months, baring all of this want and need and craving before Emet-Selch. He trembles at the thought of a time before this. And how sympathetic and knowing Emet-Selch was when he first came clean about it... It still has his breath hitching.
So much to catch up on, even to this day. So much he wants to do, to lavish his love upon this body so that it might reach the soul within. To ravish him for his own pleasure, to watch the Ascian come undone. They both have such an expansive build-up of... need, Emet-Selch's taking on a form different than his own for certain. But Mettaton knows how desperate he is for any of this. How deeply he craves it, how much deeper it gets when it has to do with his Bonded more than anything else. He described it once as a pandora's box, and that proves to be true. To never be satisfied, to always want more, and worst of all, to keep acting up on that want endlessly.
He sighs, expelling all of the breath in his lungs that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He trembles again, overwhelmed, oversensitive, and terribly, terribly hard.
With a hum, Mettaton drifts to tissue softer yet: he drifts lower along his abdomen, close enough for the head of Emet-Selch's cock to graze his cheek when he smiles, to feel heat radiating from his skin, and Mettaton eagerly takes tissue here into a kiss that marks. When he switches over to kneading the area with a press of tongue, he finds himself smiling fondly and tilting his head, once more bumping against the tip of his arousal with his cheek.]
Ah.
[Mettaton turns toward his cock, deliberately parting his lips close enough to breathe on him, close enough to tease, and intentionally close enough for any thrust to be rewarded with his mouth. He can almost anticipate the shape of his head pushing between, the way his lips would be forced to ride over a smooth curve and just barely pop over the ridge of his glans. And were he to do that, Mettaton knows he'd reward him further yet with a hard suck: he almost prepares for it, wondering if Emet-Selch would give into temptation. He should: Mettaton almost wills him to, in his mind.]
no subject
As he ducks back down again, he does it with a dreamy sigh. A few kisses spared to his chest, practically following the haunts of that incision down his middle, down his belly, and ending up above Emet-Selch's hips.
The first thing Mettaton feels is the presence of Emet-Selch's erection, painfully aroused as he is, poking directly into his neck. Mettaton hums, drawn to it instantly; his fingers tighten around wrists as his thumbs continue to work into the soft underside of them in fond circles. The idol tips his head somewhat and captures the very tip of his lover's cock between his lips, a slight smacking noise from the way he sucks a small kiss into him. It's an example of how he'll tease his body to his heart's content, too, and Mettaton hums affectionately at how much he knows the gesture will only serve to frustrate. And he's pleased with that, as he gets to work on other parts of his body.
Starting from his hip, Mettaton kisses and kisses, shifting just above the bony protrusion to take more pliant tissue into his mouth. Once more, the idol sucks a bruise into him, one after the other, intent on leaving him with as many as possible while each exhale of his is accompanied by a note of pleasurable fondness. As time goes on, the painful ache of his cock is translated into a controlled heat, one that, were he to feel any sort of direct stimulation, he knows would lead to a slippery descent into voracious hunger. An unstoppable, incurable thirst for contact, one he's only been able to scrape the surface of over this past year, the majority of it concentrated into just a number of months, baring all of this want and need and craving before Emet-Selch. He trembles at the thought of a time before this. And how sympathetic and knowing Emet-Selch was when he first came clean about it... It still has his breath hitching.
So much to catch up on, even to this day. So much he wants to do, to lavish his love upon this body so that it might reach the soul within. To ravish him for his own pleasure, to watch the Ascian come undone. They both have such an expansive build-up of... need, Emet-Selch's taking on a form different than his own for certain. But Mettaton knows how desperate he is for any of this. How deeply he craves it, how much deeper it gets when it has to do with his Bonded more than anything else. He described it once as a pandora's box, and that proves to be true. To never be satisfied, to always want more, and worst of all, to keep acting up on that want endlessly.
He sighs, expelling all of the breath in his lungs that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He trembles again, overwhelmed, oversensitive, and terribly, terribly hard.
With a hum, Mettaton drifts to tissue softer yet: he drifts lower along his abdomen, close enough for the head of Emet-Selch's cock to graze his cheek when he smiles, to feel heat radiating from his skin, and Mettaton eagerly takes tissue here into a kiss that marks. When he switches over to kneading the area with a press of tongue, he finds himself smiling fondly and tilting his head, once more bumping against the tip of his arousal with his cheek.]
Ah.
[Mettaton turns toward his cock, deliberately parting his lips close enough to breathe on him, close enough to tease, and intentionally close enough for any thrust to be rewarded with his mouth. He can almost anticipate the shape of his head pushing between, the way his lips would be forced to ride over a smooth curve and just barely pop over the ridge of his glans. And were he to do that, Mettaton knows he'd reward him further yet with a hard suck: he almost prepares for it, wondering if Emet-Selch would give into temptation. He should: Mettaton almost wills him to, in his mind.]