[There was inundation, and he never wanted it to stop. How could he? How could either of them? When he could drown in his lover's scent and taste, feel the weight of him in his mouth, and bury himself between his thighs, how could he ever bear to leave this? Even after Mettaton finished in him once, he would remain, he would suck and lick and choke on him still, finding an escape from the world in a place locked between his Bonded's legs.
A low rumble works in the back of his throat at the feeling of hands in his hair, a contact that served as both petting and holding him to where he should be, and Emet-Selch is awash with the strange sense of being at peace, of knowing exactly where he belonged and what he was doing, and being utterly at ease with it all. The love that was evident in this darkness, of being accepted and cared for and taken, and the love he felt for him in reply. Passionate and ruthless, vicious and tender; it was no wonder that something intense on so many levels was this addictive.
Gently, almost, he's nudged back, all chance at freedom shaved away by degrees. And Emet-Selch pants insufficiently around Mettaton's length while he still can, as his body goes tense, rigid, once he feels the back of his head guided so carefully to the wall. He was trapped; he was safe. But he has no time to dwell on it, on an anticipation that he thought he might come from on its own- before he's facing the rock of hips, the smooth glide of his lover's cock back, to the back of his throat and within it, a fierce shove that pinions him to the wall. That impales him there, with a pleasure that he can no longer voice, that he can only express through the constrictions of his throat, through the shuddering of his body, and all of the rapture evident through Bond.
And Mettaton cries out when he can't, providing the moans the Ascian is no longer able to give him, but hearing them in his lover's tone, knowing they were in response to the tightness and heat his throat was giving him- that satisfied in itself. For all that Mettaton deserved to be glorified in voice, through word and wordless plea alike, the adoration written in the lines of his body would have to suffice. In the giving up of air, of thought, of self, in needing him so dearly, in wanting him so completely that he's left trembling.
It's reflex alone that has Emet-Selch gasp between thrusts, sucking in sharp breaths, his body reacting to this sudden obstruction as though it were something dangerous, as though replacing oxygen with Mettaton's erection was not a clear improvement, the optional giving way to the mandatory. But thankfully each roll of hips, each claim of his throat feels as though it steals that bit more of his air, and he's never quite able to replenish anything that he loses. And with his head pressed back to the wall, there was no way for him to accidentally pull back for breath, to undo the work Mettaton was doing in replacing it with his cock alone.
One arm was held up, pushed against the wall with as much security as his head was, tangled in chains and fingers, constricted. They were locked together as they should be, and even were their pendants not wrapping them, he would've wanted to cling to him regardless, to be caught in every degree possible. So though he could use this fleeing opportunity and relative freedom of his opposite hand to touch himself, to drag fingers along a length left aching, and made ever stiffer from every moment he's deprived of air- he doesn't. It doesn't even occur to Emet-Selch as an option, that hand instead going back to his lover's thigh, holding onto him as he thrusts, tangling in his fur. An encouragement unnecessary, but he was drawn to touch him, to pull him closer, to shove him deeper, to take his throat and his body and never leave him.
A hand, at his jaw. His eyes flash open at the word look, already forcing his gaze back upward to Mettaton's face before he'd even finished speaking- the same impulse that had struck him when the puca had ordered him down. To listen, to obey, to provide- to give Mettaton everything that he wanted of him.
And so he watches, the sight of his lover's face smeared with his blood so very beautiful, dangerous in both ecstasy and threat, and he tries to moan and chokes instead around the thickness of the glans penetrating his throat. Even while having him, he wanted him, despairingly, endlessly. Emet-Selch knew what he looked like, what Mettaton must be seeing of him like this: bruised and bitten and bleeding, only partially stripped with his erection both visibly hard and neglected. Kneeling before him, with his head shoved to the wall, pierced lips split and mouth and throat made to take the girth Mettaton was stuffing into them. The way he twitched and gasped- and was progressively mostly silent, choked noises stifled by his cock. And the Ascian's obvious, obvious abject pleasure in all of the foregoing.]
no subject
A low rumble works in the back of his throat at the feeling of hands in his hair, a contact that served as both petting and holding him to where he should be, and Emet-Selch is awash with the strange sense of being at peace, of knowing exactly where he belonged and what he was doing, and being utterly at ease with it all. The love that was evident in this darkness, of being accepted and cared for and taken, and the love he felt for him in reply. Passionate and ruthless, vicious and tender; it was no wonder that something intense on so many levels was this addictive.
Gently, almost, he's nudged back, all chance at freedom shaved away by degrees. And Emet-Selch pants insufficiently around Mettaton's length while he still can, as his body goes tense, rigid, once he feels the back of his head guided so carefully to the wall. He was trapped; he was safe. But he has no time to dwell on it, on an anticipation that he thought he might come from on its own- before he's facing the rock of hips, the smooth glide of his lover's cock back, to the back of his throat and within it, a fierce shove that pinions him to the wall. That impales him there, with a pleasure that he can no longer voice, that he can only express through the constrictions of his throat, through the shuddering of his body, and all of the rapture evident through Bond.
And Mettaton cries out when he can't, providing the moans the Ascian is no longer able to give him, but hearing them in his lover's tone, knowing they were in response to the tightness and heat his throat was giving him- that satisfied in itself. For all that Mettaton deserved to be glorified in voice, through word and wordless plea alike, the adoration written in the lines of his body would have to suffice. In the giving up of air, of thought, of self, in needing him so dearly, in wanting him so completely that he's left trembling.
It's reflex alone that has Emet-Selch gasp between thrusts, sucking in sharp breaths, his body reacting to this sudden obstruction as though it were something dangerous, as though replacing oxygen with Mettaton's erection was not a clear improvement, the optional giving way to the mandatory. But thankfully each roll of hips, each claim of his throat feels as though it steals that bit more of his air, and he's never quite able to replenish anything that he loses. And with his head pressed back to the wall, there was no way for him to accidentally pull back for breath, to undo the work Mettaton was doing in replacing it with his cock alone.
One arm was held up, pushed against the wall with as much security as his head was, tangled in chains and fingers, constricted. They were locked together as they should be, and even were their pendants not wrapping them, he would've wanted to cling to him regardless, to be caught in every degree possible. So though he could use this fleeing opportunity and relative freedom of his opposite hand to touch himself, to drag fingers along a length left aching, and made ever stiffer from every moment he's deprived of air- he doesn't. It doesn't even occur to Emet-Selch as an option, that hand instead going back to his lover's thigh, holding onto him as he thrusts, tangling in his fur. An encouragement unnecessary, but he was drawn to touch him, to pull him closer, to shove him deeper, to take his throat and his body and never leave him.
A hand, at his jaw. His eyes flash open at the word look, already forcing his gaze back upward to Mettaton's face before he'd even finished speaking- the same impulse that had struck him when the puca had ordered him down. To listen, to obey, to provide- to give Mettaton everything that he wanted of him.
And so he watches, the sight of his lover's face smeared with his blood so very beautiful, dangerous in both ecstasy and threat, and he tries to moan and chokes instead around the thickness of the glans penetrating his throat. Even while having him, he wanted him, despairingly, endlessly. Emet-Selch knew what he looked like, what Mettaton must be seeing of him like this: bruised and bitten and bleeding, only partially stripped with his erection both visibly hard and neglected. Kneeling before him, with his head shoved to the wall, pierced lips split and mouth and throat made to take the girth Mettaton was stuffing into them. The way he twitched and gasped- and was progressively mostly silent, choked noises stifled by his cock. And the Ascian's obvious, obvious abject pleasure in all of the foregoing.]