[While it could never be described as soothing, there was a steadiness to the feeling of having his cock dipping into the high heat of Mettaton's throat. A continual tightness that pulsed over and around him, and Emet-Selch was briefly tempted to let go of his hair, to stroke over his neck instead, to see if he could feel his length encased there--
So when Mettaton does end up gagging on him after all, it provokes a moment's worth of startle, of concern (and intense physical pleasure, at the way his throat was spasming around him--), only to watch the puca dive right back onto his cock. Reassured that Mettaton was fine, or at least reckless and stubborn, it was simple enough for Emet-Selch to return the whole of his focus back onto what he was doing, the way his Bonded found a way to manage going over the whole of his erection.
The variation in attentions leaves him transfixed and ever more unaware of the sounds he was continuing to make, of the taut trembling in his thighs, or the way he was practically huddled over him. The only things that remained pertained directly to Mettaton. The suction of lips around the glans, to the drag of them down his rigid length, to the accommodations of his lover's throat, the heat of the depths of his body available to be indulged in. The opportunities Mettaton still took to moan, whenever his throat was less occupied, and then the way those sounds vanished when it was. A quiet that was somehow even louder.
If Mettaton decided he wanted to do this for him more often, Emet-Selch would certainly do nothing to dissuade him....
Fingers tangled in his hair, he's aware of that sensation too, damp from sweat but still soft. His other hand claws into the covers with an intensity that has his fingers hurt, but he doesn't notice that. Dimly, he's aware that his lip is bleeding again, provoked by his exhalations, but the fresh taste of it was just another part of it all. From the aching of bruises and sting of strained bites, the protestations of muscles and pulsing demands of his arousal, they were all things Mettaton had done for him, provoked in him. They were all things that belonged to his lover.
Each glide and suck along his erection pushes him that bit closer to release, until it reaches a point where the Ascian can't hang on, no matter how hard he tries. His body jolts, shudders, as climax is torn from him, a blinding sensation that reminds him a little of his skin being pierced... the building of pressure, of breathless anticipation, before receiving the pain and satisfaction of his body giving way, giving in. Only much stronger, as he empties himself into his mouth with a strangled, ecstatic noise, filling another part of him with his come. His breathing is little more than a series of gasps, and his consciousness minimal as he slumps somewhat towards him. But he clings to it, just as he clings to Mettaton's hair, not wanting to lose him, not even for a moment.]
no subject
So when Mettaton does end up gagging on him after all, it provokes a moment's worth of startle, of concern (and intense physical pleasure, at the way his throat was spasming around him--), only to watch the puca dive right back onto his cock. Reassured that Mettaton was fine, or at least reckless and stubborn, it was simple enough for Emet-Selch to return the whole of his focus back onto what he was doing, the way his Bonded found a way to manage going over the whole of his erection.
The variation in attentions leaves him transfixed and ever more unaware of the sounds he was continuing to make, of the taut trembling in his thighs, or the way he was practically huddled over him. The only things that remained pertained directly to Mettaton. The suction of lips around the glans, to the drag of them down his rigid length, to the accommodations of his lover's throat, the heat of the depths of his body available to be indulged in. The opportunities Mettaton still took to moan, whenever his throat was less occupied, and then the way those sounds vanished when it was. A quiet that was somehow even louder.
If Mettaton decided he wanted to do this for him more often, Emet-Selch would certainly do nothing to dissuade him....
Fingers tangled in his hair, he's aware of that sensation too, damp from sweat but still soft. His other hand claws into the covers with an intensity that has his fingers hurt, but he doesn't notice that. Dimly, he's aware that his lip is bleeding again, provoked by his exhalations, but the fresh taste of it was just another part of it all. From the aching of bruises and sting of strained bites, the protestations of muscles and pulsing demands of his arousal, they were all things Mettaton had done for him, provoked in him. They were all things that belonged to his lover.
Each glide and suck along his erection pushes him that bit closer to release, until it reaches a point where the Ascian can't hang on, no matter how hard he tries. His body jolts, shudders, as climax is torn from him, a blinding sensation that reminds him a little of his skin being pierced... the building of pressure, of breathless anticipation, before receiving the pain and satisfaction of his body giving way, giving in. Only much stronger, as he empties himself into his mouth with a strangled, ecstatic noise, filling another part of him with his come. His breathing is little more than a series of gasps, and his consciousness minimal as he slumps somewhat towards him. But he clings to it, just as he clings to Mettaton's hair, not wanting to lose him, not even for a moment.]