[By degrees, the world begins to fade away, and the pressure in his head increases. The Ascian is starving, and while part of his body seems to think it's for air, he knows better. He knows why he's aching, why his muscles are tight and his cock is hard, throbbing with each breath he's not taking. And it has everything to do with the growls and cries he's hearing carried on his lover's voice, and everything to do with the hold he has on him, and the ecstasy they're granting one another. A dragging and taking so thorough that Emet-Selch finds he hardly misses the attention to his own cock at all. It would be extraneous, a distraction- nearly an insult, to imply that the feeling of Mettaton's erection alone in his throat wasn't enough for him.
This seemed a completely rational thought to have in a mind where thoughts were increasingly not happening, were increasingly distorted by the burning in his lungs and the dark haze in his head. And yet despite the haze, so much was so sharp and so clear, and they were the only details that mattered. The sensation of the ridge of Mettaton's cock pushing into his throat and more frequently getting caught there, squeezed into place by the spasms around it, refraining from pulling back into his mouth. And the natural way it kept exploring deeper, claiming more and more of his throat, and Emet-Selch longed to tell him of how good he felt, how thick he was, how stiff and how hot- and to demand again that he never stop.
But he can't, of course, and he didn't even have the words for it besides, nothing to convey this adoration.
So he holds on instead- to his thigh, to those feelings. He rubs his tongue against what he can of the shaft as it moves within his mouth, a welcoming touch as each shove finds him deeper. And he watches him, as much as he can, devoted not to the task of it, but to the sight of him in his terrible brilliance, and losing himself to a madness that could only be blamed in part on a lack of air. There was a fulfillment here that he never expected, and he would never, ever, let him go.
Pinpricks of pain accompany the scoring of the back of his neck, providing both a heat, and a small dampness to sticky the strands of hair there. But more noticeable yet is the helpful way Mettaton's hand further secures his head in place, steadying and stroking him, making sure he can't accidentally slide away from the thrusting of his cock. It was impossible to comprehend being loved more than this.
A moment's call for air- if even that much. If even that long. And Emet-Selch swallows it in with a gasping sound before he can stop himself, his body's automatic processes desperately attempting to keep his blood oxygenated when the man himself was encouraging all attempts otherwise. But it's a second of air that offers only barest clarity, the dizziness and ever-increasing euphoria made that much more explicit when they surround this rumor of, this mistake of breath.
It's also the loudest sound he's been able to make in a while, and is quickly lost again, cut off as Mettaton's body arches, hips jerking, burying himself completely in his throat.
His eyes keep wanting to squeeze shut but Emet-Selch forces them open, even when his face is so close to Mettaton's body that he can't look up, can only gaze into his crotch, viewing the short, brutal thrusts from the most intimate kind of vantage point. And the simple thought (if it could even be called something as cohesive as thought) of exactly how he was able to obtain this particular perspective, that it was only possible in a position with a cock deep in his mouth, a body ground into his face- keeps him shuddering, his own body twitching, as though trying to bury himself deeper still in his lover's crotch.
He keeps trying to cry out, but he can't; the focus and relaxation he can usually manage during deep-throating is hardly in evidence. Focus remains, of a sort, but it's a focus only on sensation and need, on how thick Mettaton felt in his throat, driving his way into him and rubbing, stroking his erratically clenching throat. Emet-Selch chokes on him, around him, gagging, convulsing, without even the slightest hint of wanting him to stop. He would moan if he could, and in his ardor he keeps trying, not caring about (and in a way, further enjoying) the way it only made the spasming of his throat worse. It kept wanting to reject Mettaton's presence, but that very process caused them both immense pleasure, so it was a tolerable betrayal. It wasn't as though the two of them couldn't continue to override it anyway.
As the idea of losing too much breath would've been an absurd one to Emet-Selch. Even if they had been sensible enough to arrange some method of requesting a pause when voice was unavailable, the Ascian would never have used it. He could be driven unconscious, and even then, were Mettaton to stop prematurely, he'd likely only resent it.
There's a lot of saliva forming that has nowhere to go- or at least, has no way of escaping down his throat, so he can't help but drool around him, something that troubles Emet-Selch not at all. There was only the awareness of how slick he was making his lover's erection, and how hot they were making each other- which was only fitting. As easily incensed as they were by one another, there could be no other outcome between them.]
no subject
This seemed a completely rational thought to have in a mind where thoughts were increasingly not happening, were increasingly distorted by the burning in his lungs and the dark haze in his head. And yet despite the haze, so much was so sharp and so clear, and they were the only details that mattered. The sensation of the ridge of Mettaton's cock pushing into his throat and more frequently getting caught there, squeezed into place by the spasms around it, refraining from pulling back into his mouth. And the natural way it kept exploring deeper, claiming more and more of his throat, and Emet-Selch longed to tell him of how good he felt, how thick he was, how stiff and how hot- and to demand again that he never stop.
But he can't, of course, and he didn't even have the words for it besides, nothing to convey this adoration.
So he holds on instead- to his thigh, to those feelings. He rubs his tongue against what he can of the shaft as it moves within his mouth, a welcoming touch as each shove finds him deeper. And he watches him, as much as he can, devoted not to the task of it, but to the sight of him in his terrible brilliance, and losing himself to a madness that could only be blamed in part on a lack of air. There was a fulfillment here that he never expected, and he would never, ever, let him go.
Pinpricks of pain accompany the scoring of the back of his neck, providing both a heat, and a small dampness to sticky the strands of hair there. But more noticeable yet is the helpful way Mettaton's hand further secures his head in place, steadying and stroking him, making sure he can't accidentally slide away from the thrusting of his cock. It was impossible to comprehend being loved more than this.
A moment's call for air- if even that much. If even that long. And Emet-Selch swallows it in with a gasping sound before he can stop himself, his body's automatic processes desperately attempting to keep his blood oxygenated when the man himself was encouraging all attempts otherwise. But it's a second of air that offers only barest clarity, the dizziness and ever-increasing euphoria made that much more explicit when they surround this rumor of, this mistake of breath.
It's also the loudest sound he's been able to make in a while, and is quickly lost again, cut off as Mettaton's body arches, hips jerking, burying himself completely in his throat.
His eyes keep wanting to squeeze shut but Emet-Selch forces them open, even when his face is so close to Mettaton's body that he can't look up, can only gaze into his crotch, viewing the short, brutal thrusts from the most intimate kind of vantage point. And the simple thought (if it could even be called something as cohesive as thought) of exactly how he was able to obtain this particular perspective, that it was only possible in a position with a cock deep in his mouth, a body ground into his face- keeps him shuddering, his own body twitching, as though trying to bury himself deeper still in his lover's crotch.
He keeps trying to cry out, but he can't; the focus and relaxation he can usually manage during deep-throating is hardly in evidence. Focus remains, of a sort, but it's a focus only on sensation and need, on how thick Mettaton felt in his throat, driving his way into him and rubbing, stroking his erratically clenching throat. Emet-Selch chokes on him, around him, gagging, convulsing, without even the slightest hint of wanting him to stop. He would moan if he could, and in his ardor he keeps trying, not caring about (and in a way, further enjoying) the way it only made the spasming of his throat worse. It kept wanting to reject Mettaton's presence, but that very process caused them both immense pleasure, so it was a tolerable betrayal. It wasn't as though the two of them couldn't continue to override it anyway.
As the idea of losing too much breath would've been an absurd one to Emet-Selch. Even if they had been sensible enough to arrange some method of requesting a pause when voice was unavailable, the Ascian would never have used it. He could be driven unconscious, and even then, were Mettaton to stop prematurely, he'd likely only resent it.
There's a lot of saliva forming that has nowhere to go- or at least, has no way of escaping down his throat, so he can't help but drool around him, something that troubles Emet-Selch not at all. There was only the awareness of how slick he was making his lover's erection, and how hot they were making each other- which was only fitting. As easily incensed as they were by one another, there could be no other outcome between them.]