[The gears are already turning in that forward-thinking head of his, on the topic of mirrors.
If anything, that nuzzle ended up being another point toward his need to take him in so deeply, aside from general excessiveness, from the pleasure of it. A thick, undeniable weight encroaching upon his throat, blocking off his airway and prodding him so intimately... In an attempt to change things up from bobbing up and down, Mettaton hungrily lets him pop into his throat and keeps him there, humming soundlessly into the heaviness of his cock blocking off his throat, a sensation that suddenly feels dizzying and pleasant beyond sense. Enough that he feels he might climax himself for a moment, he's not sure, but it all becomes so much. (When was the last time he took a breath? As if Mettaton cares.) He'd forgotten how pleasant it feels to have his cock resting in his throat, stretching around the shape of his head, forcing him to relax and make room for something his body fought against, but that he wanted so desperately. He can have whatever he wants, and if that something's his Bonded's erection sinking into his throat, it's his. (A mental note to suck him off more often: the rush he gets is intense.)
Until his body decides it's had enough. It's not the most graceful of things he could have done, but he tries to swallow, an excess of drool pooling in his mouth. The gag reflex does exist, though he hoped it would be for things unpleasant rather than his lover's erection in his mouth. His throat clamps down on his head, rejecting his length as he retches, pulls off of Emet-Selch with a gasp for air mixed with a cough. The best attempt was made...
...And for some ridiculous, inhuman reason, it doesn't stop him from coming right back down upon his Bonded. One ragged breath later and he's descended upon his length in unpracticed depravity, returning to a more rhythmic sliding. But his strokes are greater this time, giving Mettaton more of a chance to breathe, more of a chance to drag his lips over the head of his cock before sliding down the shaft so thoroughly, a rapturous focus on the head as it drags along his tongue all the way back to his throat. Why would he stop something that not only he takes deep pleasure in, but that his Bonded clearly enjoys?
The feeling of fingers on his face and in his hair is clear encouragement if his pleas and moans wasn't enough, but it all registers to him as so endearing, how far gone he could render Emet-Selch. He continues in reverence, tongue pressing and sliding and flicking against his tip whenever he finds himself with swollen lips wrapped just around the glans, always giving him a good suck before sliding the down to treat him to the intense heat of his slick throat, sore as it's becoming. Mettaton couldn't begin to care. It's where the Ascian belongs, he'd agree — he had more right to it than anything else. The slip of a long, soft groan comes from his throat, delighted by the sensation and the sympathy he feels for his lover.]
no subject
If anything, that nuzzle ended up being another point toward his need to take him in so deeply, aside from general excessiveness, from the pleasure of it. A thick, undeniable weight encroaching upon his throat, blocking off his airway and prodding him so intimately... In an attempt to change things up from bobbing up and down, Mettaton hungrily lets him pop into his throat and keeps him there, humming soundlessly into the heaviness of his cock blocking off his throat, a sensation that suddenly feels dizzying and pleasant beyond sense. Enough that he feels he might climax himself for a moment, he's not sure, but it all becomes so much. (When was the last time he took a breath? As if Mettaton cares.) He'd forgotten how pleasant it feels to have his cock resting in his throat, stretching around the shape of his head, forcing him to relax and make room for something his body fought against, but that he wanted so desperately. He can have whatever he wants, and if that something's his Bonded's erection sinking into his throat, it's his. (A mental note to suck him off more often: the rush he gets is intense.)
Until his body decides it's had enough. It's not the most graceful of things he could have done, but he tries to swallow, an excess of drool pooling in his mouth. The gag reflex does exist, though he hoped it would be for things unpleasant rather than his lover's erection in his mouth. His throat clamps down on his head, rejecting his length as he retches, pulls off of Emet-Selch with a gasp for air mixed with a cough. The best attempt was made...
...And for some ridiculous, inhuman reason, it doesn't stop him from coming right back down upon his Bonded. One ragged breath later and he's descended upon his length in unpracticed depravity, returning to a more rhythmic sliding. But his strokes are greater this time, giving Mettaton more of a chance to breathe, more of a chance to drag his lips over the head of his cock before sliding down the shaft so thoroughly, a rapturous focus on the head as it drags along his tongue all the way back to his throat. Why would he stop something that not only he takes deep pleasure in, but that his Bonded clearly enjoys?
The feeling of fingers on his face and in his hair is clear encouragement if his pleas and moans wasn't enough, but it all registers to him as so endearing, how far gone he could render Emet-Selch. He continues in reverence, tongue pressing and sliding and flicking against his tip whenever he finds himself with swollen lips wrapped just around the glans, always giving him a good suck before sliding the down to treat him to the intense heat of his slick throat, sore as it's becoming. Mettaton couldn't begin to care. It's where the Ascian belongs, he'd agree — he had more right to it than anything else. The slip of a long, soft groan comes from his throat, delighted by the sensation and the sympathy he feels for his lover.]