[There was the sound of laughter that in itself excited, heightening both the strength of his own demands, along with his need to fulfill every last one of Mettaton's. Emet-Selch believed his Bonded would approve of his arrogance, which made him love him ever more for it; he could tell him every desire, every expectation, knowing they would go fulfilled (until there were more, because there were always more, but he'd take those too). And he wanted every demand of Mettaton's, all of his darkness and love, and to give him everything that he desired himself. And he knew with no hesitation or doubt in his heart, that they would both be satisfied.
The idol was confident, and had every reason to be; every part of the Ascian's body responded to his touch with sharp immediacy. On their own accord, his hips shift, thrusting into Mettaton's hand. It was as though his cock knew this was likely all the direct stimulation it would be afforded for a time, and was trying to make the best of it, undaunted by claws, and so terribly rigid. A stiffness that was a testament to his attraction to him, and he moans openly as he watches him, knowing that Mettaton could see him so helplessly desirous, desperate for every bit of his attention, and was aroused ever more by the thought.
But soon he would lose the mercy of a hand at his cock, a side-effect of what he wanted most. And Emet-Selch considered as well, what it would be like- to have Mettaton's full length in his throat be the primary tool given to satisfy himself with; would the heated sucking and stroking of his lover's erection be enough to pull from him his own climax? The idea enticed him, in a strange way; to be so wholly consumed, made so devoted to his lover's pleasure that the act of bestowing it to him became enough on its own to orgasm. Not only enough, but a requirement; what was pleasure, without him?
It would be a frustrating and intense affair, in any case, the very thought leaving his breathing heavy and his body taut, arching against his Bonded's form. And then, finally, it seemed, there was the stiffness of a cock pressing against his hand, expecting attention, and his fingers wrap around him with demonstrated eagerness, stroking and groping and squeezing over every part of him. There was no surprise at all that he'd already be hard, full and ready for him, for his delectation. Emet-Selch drags his thumb hard over the tip, appreciating the give to it, and imagining the way it would feel pushing its way down his throat.
Emet-Selch swallows; his pulse felt painfully loud. And though he knew he wouldn't have, he was relieved all the same that Mettaton wouldn't deny him this. Would allow him this selfish pleasure of suffocating around his length and swallowing his ejaculate.
And then the idol leaned away from his throat. Normally, Mettaton pulling back from his body would be intolerable- never minding that Emet-Selch would soon have to take up a position beneath him, in order to satisfy them both. But the Ascian feels, instead, the weight of his lover's regard. The eye that rakes across all that was made available and visible to him, and he knows it's an arousing, appealing sight. If his hand weren't occupied by stroking along Mettaton's shaft, he might've been tempted to drag fingers along wounds old and new instead. The places where flesh was raw and torn, wet from blood barely diluted by saliva- and trace to those locations that were merely sore, warm and aching, bruises that spanned the course of weeks. Though he hardly needed the reminder, Emet-Selch was certain he could see it all reflected in Mettaton's gaze, providing him the perfect path to follow.
And then there were teeth- more and just as satisfying, his body jerking from the mix of pain and rapture. Old wounds becoming new wounds as Mettaton tears into places healing, and Emet-Selch shudders, groans, fingers tightening around his cock, a show of his gratitude.
He tries to catch his breath and mostly fails, when that burst of violence is sealed with gentleness, soft lips pressing to raw flesh. And small, barely audible sounds continue to escape his lips as Mettaton spreads that affection upward, blood a visible reminder of it, as he reaches his ear, filling him with his voice once more. Just another part of the way he would be filling the rest of his body with something more physical. And he could feel that growing ferality, a kind of focused madness leeching through the Bond, and when Mettaton orders him down, it takes more endurance than he thought he had, to not sink to his knees in an instant. He wanted to be there, after all.]
By now, I would hope... that you would know what I want.
[Which in its truest sense meant, 'anything Mettaton did to him.' And in this current moment meant exactly this: his throat fucked, taken, used, neither of them caring if he choked or gagged on him- perhaps even relishing it. Delighting in the automatic responses of his body, and how they both sought to ignore them, knowing better.
Finding Mettaton's lips for a small, bloody kiss, his fingers provide his length a last, slow stroke- a consolation to tide him over for the few moments when he would go untouched. A reassurance that he would soon feel something better.
Falling to his knees, Emet-Selch sits back, gaze remaining on Mettaton's face all the while, before sliding down his body (taking in that glittering jewelry he was still wearing, and the darker, more thorough patches of fur)- and landing upon his cock, engorged and hot and at such a convenient level for him to take. A sight and thought that causes him to shudder, resisting the urge to use his now-free hand to stroke over his own aching length. It was as though this were a position he was made to be in, and his eyes drift closed as he lunges forward, burying his face in his lover's crotch, nuzzling and licking all over the base of his erection, his balls, sucking gently at them, and leaving imprints of blood anywhere his lips lingered. Soft moans escape his throat as he rubs his face all against his length, barely able to contain his anticipation, his need to have him. He was breathing too much, and that was too much freedom to tolerate. But while he had it, he would speak.]
--But you're right. I want that... precisely. Don't stop.
[A request made in a tone deep and low. As though he were in any position to make requests of him.
But why did he need to contain himself? It's barely any time at all before his lips slide up Mettaton's shaft all the way to the tip, mouthing and sucking at the glans with wet abandon, and clear pleasure in the act. But his lips continue to part around him, leaning forward to take just the head- and then all that he could comfortably fit in his mouth and still continue to breathe. And Emet-Selch sucks around him, rubs the underside with his tongue, appreciates the way it molds to the shape of it. And flirts with taking him deeper, feeling the very tip brush the back of his throat, so very close to where he belonged, but not quite pushing him there.]
no subject
The idol was confident, and had every reason to be; every part of the Ascian's body responded to his touch with sharp immediacy. On their own accord, his hips shift, thrusting into Mettaton's hand. It was as though his cock knew this was likely all the direct stimulation it would be afforded for a time, and was trying to make the best of it, undaunted by claws, and so terribly rigid. A stiffness that was a testament to his attraction to him, and he moans openly as he watches him, knowing that Mettaton could see him so helplessly desirous, desperate for every bit of his attention, and was aroused ever more by the thought.
But soon he would lose the mercy of a hand at his cock, a side-effect of what he wanted most. And Emet-Selch considered as well, what it would be like- to have Mettaton's full length in his throat be the primary tool given to satisfy himself with; would the heated sucking and stroking of his lover's erection be enough to pull from him his own climax? The idea enticed him, in a strange way; to be so wholly consumed, made so devoted to his lover's pleasure that the act of bestowing it to him became enough on its own to orgasm. Not only enough, but a requirement; what was pleasure, without him?
It would be a frustrating and intense affair, in any case, the very thought leaving his breathing heavy and his body taut, arching against his Bonded's form. And then, finally, it seemed, there was the stiffness of a cock pressing against his hand, expecting attention, and his fingers wrap around him with demonstrated eagerness, stroking and groping and squeezing over every part of him. There was no surprise at all that he'd already be hard, full and ready for him, for his delectation. Emet-Selch drags his thumb hard over the tip, appreciating the give to it, and imagining the way it would feel pushing its way down his throat.
Emet-Selch swallows; his pulse felt painfully loud. And though he knew he wouldn't have, he was relieved all the same that Mettaton wouldn't deny him this. Would allow him this selfish pleasure of suffocating around his length and swallowing his ejaculate.
And then the idol leaned away from his throat. Normally, Mettaton pulling back from his body would be intolerable- never minding that Emet-Selch would soon have to take up a position beneath him, in order to satisfy them both. But the Ascian feels, instead, the weight of his lover's regard. The eye that rakes across all that was made available and visible to him, and he knows it's an arousing, appealing sight. If his hand weren't occupied by stroking along Mettaton's shaft, he might've been tempted to drag fingers along wounds old and new instead. The places where flesh was raw and torn, wet from blood barely diluted by saliva- and trace to those locations that were merely sore, warm and aching, bruises that spanned the course of weeks. Though he hardly needed the reminder, Emet-Selch was certain he could see it all reflected in Mettaton's gaze, providing him the perfect path to follow.
And then there were teeth- more and just as satisfying, his body jerking from the mix of pain and rapture. Old wounds becoming new wounds as Mettaton tears into places healing, and Emet-Selch shudders, groans, fingers tightening around his cock, a show of his gratitude.
He tries to catch his breath and mostly fails, when that burst of violence is sealed with gentleness, soft lips pressing to raw flesh. And small, barely audible sounds continue to escape his lips as Mettaton spreads that affection upward, blood a visible reminder of it, as he reaches his ear, filling him with his voice once more. Just another part of the way he would be filling the rest of his body with something more physical. And he could feel that growing ferality, a kind of focused madness leeching through the Bond, and when Mettaton orders him down, it takes more endurance than he thought he had, to not sink to his knees in an instant. He wanted to be there, after all.]
By now, I would hope... that you would know what I want.
[Which in its truest sense meant, 'anything Mettaton did to him.' And in this current moment meant exactly this: his throat fucked, taken, used, neither of them caring if he choked or gagged on him- perhaps even relishing it. Delighting in the automatic responses of his body, and how they both sought to ignore them, knowing better.
Finding Mettaton's lips for a small, bloody kiss, his fingers provide his length a last, slow stroke- a consolation to tide him over for the few moments when he would go untouched. A reassurance that he would soon feel something better.
Falling to his knees, Emet-Selch sits back, gaze remaining on Mettaton's face all the while, before sliding down his body (taking in that glittering jewelry he was still wearing, and the darker, more thorough patches of fur)- and landing upon his cock, engorged and hot and at such a convenient level for him to take. A sight and thought that causes him to shudder, resisting the urge to use his now-free hand to stroke over his own aching length. It was as though this were a position he was made to be in, and his eyes drift closed as he lunges forward, burying his face in his lover's crotch, nuzzling and licking all over the base of his erection, his balls, sucking gently at them, and leaving imprints of blood anywhere his lips lingered. Soft moans escape his throat as he rubs his face all against his length, barely able to contain his anticipation, his need to have him. He was breathing too much, and that was too much freedom to tolerate. But while he had it, he would speak.]
--But you're right. I want that... precisely. Don't stop.
[A request made in a tone deep and low. As though he were in any position to make requests of him.
But why did he need to contain himself? It's barely any time at all before his lips slide up Mettaton's shaft all the way to the tip, mouthing and sucking at the glans with wet abandon, and clear pleasure in the act. But his lips continue to part around him, leaning forward to take just the head- and then all that he could comfortably fit in his mouth and still continue to breathe. And Emet-Selch sucks around him, rubs the underside with his tongue, appreciates the way it molds to the shape of it. And flirts with taking him deeper, feeling the very tip brush the back of his throat, so very close to where he belonged, but not quite pushing him there.]