[All of the sound Mettaton was making keeps his breath quiet, and though he can't entirely stifle every gasp or cry, he doesn't try terribly hard; there was no harm in his Bonded hearing his own appreciation for what he was doing. But the Ascian felt so enthralled by every noise his lover could produce, and how loud they were so close to his ears, drowning out all other sound. And the heaviness of his breath- felt against his back and neck- was an unusual sensation, and when paired with the noise of Mettaton's panting, sets Emet-Selch shivering. A lighter sensation to perfectly match the heavy fullness of his cock.
A fullness that somehow reaches even deeper with Mettaton's jerk of hips against him, a jostling of his length that serves to rub him with its deeply buried head. Something that has him tighten again around him, as though to hold onto that sensation, to stroke himself even more firmly with it.
And then Mettaton begins to move, and he's treated again to the sight of his lover's cock pulling partially free from his body, able to admire his rigidity and shape; there was really no question that he would be made to yield to that, to wrap around him so securely, and so smoothly. Filled to the most satisfying degree by his shaft, and repeatedly stroked by the differing shape of the glans- each thrust brought a range of sensations to fixate over.
And visually it was no less intense. The sight of his bruised body spread open and fucked, sweaty and trembling, jerking slightly with each of Mettaton's thrusts. The dig of his lover's hands under his knees, keeping them apart; the rhythmic writhing of his own body in order to drive Mettaton's cock deeper on each inward pass. The way his arms remained on either side of himself, as ineffectual anchors, tensing and shaking with the rest of him.]
Mettaton- gods... the way you feel--
[He was a complete mess, but he supposed they both were, in their ways, and his pulse was racing at the thought of Mettaton coming apart underneath him, inside of him, around him. There was nothing to be self-conscious about, to be so ruined. How unusually rough the idol's voice sounded too... a thought that has the Ascian swallowing thickly, imagining how the press of his own cock down his throat must've contributed to that particular quality. Everything was connected; each instance of sex was its own unique moment, satisfying and intense and worthy of specific recollection... and yet together, with the way they built on one another, they became a singular instance as well. From the first time they'd had sex until now- perhaps even from their first meeting, in a way- it was all tied together, reaching towards a conclusion that he never wanted to see. That he refused to acknowledge would ever happen.
Emet-Selch certainly wasn't thinking about that now, not when he had the sight of his lover's cock pounding into him before him, not when he had his gasps and moans in his ears, the prickling of his breath at his neck. Not when he could tighten around him and move with him, to give himself over entirely, and take all of Mettaton in return.]
no subject
A fullness that somehow reaches even deeper with Mettaton's jerk of hips against him, a jostling of his length that serves to rub him with its deeply buried head. Something that has him tighten again around him, as though to hold onto that sensation, to stroke himself even more firmly with it.
And then Mettaton begins to move, and he's treated again to the sight of his lover's cock pulling partially free from his body, able to admire his rigidity and shape; there was really no question that he would be made to yield to that, to wrap around him so securely, and so smoothly. Filled to the most satisfying degree by his shaft, and repeatedly stroked by the differing shape of the glans- each thrust brought a range of sensations to fixate over.
And visually it was no less intense. The sight of his bruised body spread open and fucked, sweaty and trembling, jerking slightly with each of Mettaton's thrusts. The dig of his lover's hands under his knees, keeping them apart; the rhythmic writhing of his own body in order to drive Mettaton's cock deeper on each inward pass. The way his arms remained on either side of himself, as ineffectual anchors, tensing and shaking with the rest of him.]
Mettaton- gods... the way you feel--
[He was a complete mess, but he supposed they both were, in their ways, and his pulse was racing at the thought of Mettaton coming apart underneath him, inside of him, around him. There was nothing to be self-conscious about, to be so ruined. How unusually rough the idol's voice sounded too... a thought that has the Ascian swallowing thickly, imagining how the press of his own cock down his throat must've contributed to that particular quality. Everything was connected; each instance of sex was its own unique moment, satisfying and intense and worthy of specific recollection... and yet together, with the way they built on one another, they became a singular instance as well. From the first time they'd had sex until now- perhaps even from their first meeting, in a way- it was all tied together, reaching towards a conclusion that he never wanted to see. That he refused to acknowledge would ever happen.
Emet-Selch certainly wasn't thinking about that now, not when he had the sight of his lover's cock pounding into him before him, not when he had his gasps and moans in his ears, the prickling of his breath at his neck. Not when he could tighten around him and move with him, to give himself over entirely, and take all of Mettaton in return.]