[Fabric tears, and skin breaks. Thin lines of red appear at his sides; lines that bead and slowly drip as the seconds pass, as the tension in the muscles underneath encourages the cuts to spill over, fine whispers of detail to accentuate the whole of his lover's continuing work on him. And with his clothes torn and pulled, worked free from one arm, with whatever assistance he could offer- it was insufficient. A frustration he could share, arching his neck underneath Mettaton's jaws, encouraging the pull of blood, to be both soothed and further incensed by the taking of it, of being divested of that much, at least. And there was the intimacy of teeth, the purity and focus that pain brought, a tearing of flesh that hardly qualified as damage. That implied something negative: this was an improvement, this was a necessity, his neck deserving of these scars.
But even partially stripped was better. And it would do for the moment.
What would also do was Mettaton's hand turned instead to handle his trapped cock, admiration evident in his fingertips, in the stroke of his palm. An appreciation that Emet-Selch felt most entitled to, and what better way to show his appreciation than by thrusting into his touch, by having his voice lost to breathless moaning. All of his sounds belonged to his lover, whether they were words, sighs, gasps- even silence itself. Especially when his voice was stolen, it was Mettaton's.
Though there was a flicker of regret to feel incisors sliding free from his body, it was replaced by the gain of hearing his lover's voice; this was just as good, and something that could penetrate him with just as much ease. Emet-Selch rubs his head against Mettaton's as he listens to him moan into his neck, as the man rubs and smears the blood he had freed from him.
More fabric, parted; it feels as though his heart stops for a moment, in utter anticipation, as if he'd been waiting for hours just to be touched, left wanting and desperate for his attention. Waiting a lifetime, perhaps, his needs building unknowingly over the centuries, neglected and sealed away, only for all of them to be called upon now. An endless welling of desires lay hard and hot against Mettaton's fingers, waiting for him alone, the only one who could even begin to satisfy him.
There was the threat of claws, and the equal delightfulness of just being touched, to feel his lover's hand at his erection- which was certainly stiff enough to leave Emet-Selch dizzied by it. And how quickly, it felt, to have all of his blood pooled there. ...All of it, apart from what Mettaton had sucked from his neck, had begun to paint his body with. But the Ascian had plenty; there was more than enough for both purposes, the only reasons he had blood to begin with.
Emet-Selch moans again, from the warmth of lips mouthing at his neck, from the rush of fingers stroking along his length. He was painfully hard, and it was painfully easy to imagine Mettaton's mouth in place of his hand, applying that heat and attention that he could already feel, to a place even more sensitive than his open wounds. He ached for him, and yet, even more than that--
He was breathless... but not breathless enough. And then it was clear to him what he wanted most of all. His hand moves, to drag over Mettaton's thigh, to veer inwards, as though willing the man to transform, even if only in part- to provide him his own cock to devote his attention to. To worship.]
I want... to swallow you. To take you in my throat, taste you and take you there, I....
[His torn lips made more swollen yet by wrapping them around his length, pushed all the way to the base, and held there. How hot his lover's come would be, and he wanted that feeling, an eruption down his throat that was better than air--]
no subject
But even partially stripped was better. And it would do for the moment.
What would also do was Mettaton's hand turned instead to handle his trapped cock, admiration evident in his fingertips, in the stroke of his palm. An appreciation that Emet-Selch felt most entitled to, and what better way to show his appreciation than by thrusting into his touch, by having his voice lost to breathless moaning. All of his sounds belonged to his lover, whether they were words, sighs, gasps- even silence itself. Especially when his voice was stolen, it was Mettaton's.
Though there was a flicker of regret to feel incisors sliding free from his body, it was replaced by the gain of hearing his lover's voice; this was just as good, and something that could penetrate him with just as much ease. Emet-Selch rubs his head against Mettaton's as he listens to him moan into his neck, as the man rubs and smears the blood he had freed from him.
More fabric, parted; it feels as though his heart stops for a moment, in utter anticipation, as if he'd been waiting for hours just to be touched, left wanting and desperate for his attention. Waiting a lifetime, perhaps, his needs building unknowingly over the centuries, neglected and sealed away, only for all of them to be called upon now. An endless welling of desires lay hard and hot against Mettaton's fingers, waiting for him alone, the only one who could even begin to satisfy him.
There was the threat of claws, and the equal delightfulness of just being touched, to feel his lover's hand at his erection- which was certainly stiff enough to leave Emet-Selch dizzied by it. And how quickly, it felt, to have all of his blood pooled there. ...All of it, apart from what Mettaton had sucked from his neck, had begun to paint his body with. But the Ascian had plenty; there was more than enough for both purposes, the only reasons he had blood to begin with.
Emet-Selch moans again, from the warmth of lips mouthing at his neck, from the rush of fingers stroking along his length. He was painfully hard, and it was painfully easy to imagine Mettaton's mouth in place of his hand, applying that heat and attention that he could already feel, to a place even more sensitive than his open wounds. He ached for him, and yet, even more than that--
He was breathless... but not breathless enough. And then it was clear to him what he wanted most of all. His hand moves, to drag over Mettaton's thigh, to veer inwards, as though willing the man to transform, even if only in part- to provide him his own cock to devote his attention to. To worship.]
I want... to swallow you. To take you in my throat, taste you and take you there, I....
[His torn lips made more swollen yet by wrapping them around his length, pushed all the way to the base, and held there. How hot his lover's come would be, and he wanted that feeling, an eruption down his throat that was better than air--]
Give me this.
[A demand to... let him suck his cock.]