[It was a rhythm to both lose himself in and find himself made more complete on the other side. Mettaton was replacing more than air, and in the face of their shared ecstatic rapture, he couldn't discern whose pleasure was whose, knowing only that it didn't matter; dedicated as they were to one another, it might as well have been the same.
So any pulling back whatsoever was intolerable, a loss unspeakable. His eyes scan upwards as best they can; the only protest he can muster. But Emet-Selch is mollified and fascinated all over again by the sight of Mettaton above him, tall and dark and lovely, the face of some manner of primal magnificence. And the demand he made of him completed the look, and just as before, in the wake of hearing such a command, in comprehending it, how could he want to do anything other than obey? Their desires were the same.
And Mettaton slid back into place, with the sort of utter rightness that left him trembling and faint.
His throat was stretched, sore- both from the length that had glided and pushed its way inside, and also from the way that motion seemed to agitate the bloody wounds left on his neck. Marks in the shape and position of claws, marks that continue to bleed sluggishly with all of this work his throat was being made to endure. Mettaton's hand pressing over them further disturbs any attempt for gentle clots to form, and Emet-Selch is sure, somehow, that he's not imagining the wetness running down his neck. Some is his own saliva, having dripped and trailed down there from his chin (and even that has a slight bloody tinge, considering the wound in his lip is likewise getting little time to recover), but the rest is blood.
It was fitting, it would match- he didn't think but only felt- to have blood down his neck and come down his throat, both sensations his lover was considerate enough to provide him. Different ways of piercing and claiming him, of marking him with his attention both inside and out.
And he swallows around him. Held in place by cock and hands, lovingly kept in position and admired- because what part of his visage now was not admirable? The work they were both putting into it, both the taking of his cock and the giving of it, the drip of drool upon his face, and his own salivation. The position they were in, himself on shuddering knees, Mettaton fucking him against the wall, grinding his head against it with each roll of hips. Tenderly, he could feel Mettaton's fingers palpitate the length caught in his throat, and the Ascian's entire body goes taut at the sensation, of his lover stroking his own cock through the material of his tensing, squeezing throat. A stroking that serves to make even clearer every detail of his shaft, the sloping, giving shape of the head, and the way his body was compressing it, stroking it in turn. The rub his throat could provide with each swallow, as though he could pull him into his body entirely, starved for every inch of his length, and aching for every trace of his come.
And so he keeps swallowing because how could he ever stop? His throat, desperately, futily, keeps trying to clear what was blocking it by these clutching attempts to drag him deeper. And the rest of him was ecstatic at it, at the way his lips were wrapped all the way around the base, nose and face shoved into his lover's crotch with no way of pulling free. His hands claw into him, and his own cock felt harder than he could ever imagine it being. His need was so sharp, it was the only bit of clarity he had, but it was a need that encompassed Mettaton's own, was intrinsically tied to it, and he knew, in some fathomless way, that he could only be satisfied by feeling the thickness of his lover's come spilling down his throat. A heat that would put all else to shame, and he'd squeeze it all from him, every drop- the massaging spasms of his neck would make sure of it.
Because of course he wanted his come, wanted to feel it and taste it and have it, to take this part of him even deeper, further than even his cock could reach.
A whine is trapped in his throat along with all the other sounds he can't make, strangled and lost to the ceaseless rubbing of Mettaton's erection. A pleading for his come, to fill him and mark him again; he was swallowing so studiously around him, he deserved it, he needed it, he required it. His chest burned, and his thoughts were disordered, impressions only of everything he wanted, of his lover's pounding, of his encroaching form towering over him, holding him, loving him.]
no subject
So any pulling back whatsoever was intolerable, a loss unspeakable. His eyes scan upwards as best they can; the only protest he can muster. But Emet-Selch is mollified and fascinated all over again by the sight of Mettaton above him, tall and dark and lovely, the face of some manner of primal magnificence. And the demand he made of him completed the look, and just as before, in the wake of hearing such a command, in comprehending it, how could he want to do anything other than obey? Their desires were the same.
And Mettaton slid back into place, with the sort of utter rightness that left him trembling and faint.
His throat was stretched, sore- both from the length that had glided and pushed its way inside, and also from the way that motion seemed to agitate the bloody wounds left on his neck. Marks in the shape and position of claws, marks that continue to bleed sluggishly with all of this work his throat was being made to endure. Mettaton's hand pressing over them further disturbs any attempt for gentle clots to form, and Emet-Selch is sure, somehow, that he's not imagining the wetness running down his neck. Some is his own saliva, having dripped and trailed down there from his chin (and even that has a slight bloody tinge, considering the wound in his lip is likewise getting little time to recover), but the rest is blood.
It was fitting, it would match- he didn't think but only felt- to have blood down his neck and come down his throat, both sensations his lover was considerate enough to provide him. Different ways of piercing and claiming him, of marking him with his attention both inside and out.
And he swallows around him. Held in place by cock and hands, lovingly kept in position and admired- because what part of his visage now was not admirable? The work they were both putting into it, both the taking of his cock and the giving of it, the drip of drool upon his face, and his own salivation. The position they were in, himself on shuddering knees, Mettaton fucking him against the wall, grinding his head against it with each roll of hips. Tenderly, he could feel Mettaton's fingers palpitate the length caught in his throat, and the Ascian's entire body goes taut at the sensation, of his lover stroking his own cock through the material of his tensing, squeezing throat. A stroking that serves to make even clearer every detail of his shaft, the sloping, giving shape of the head, and the way his body was compressing it, stroking it in turn. The rub his throat could provide with each swallow, as though he could pull him into his body entirely, starved for every inch of his length, and aching for every trace of his come.
And so he keeps swallowing because how could he ever stop? His throat, desperately, futily, keeps trying to clear what was blocking it by these clutching attempts to drag him deeper. And the rest of him was ecstatic at it, at the way his lips were wrapped all the way around the base, nose and face shoved into his lover's crotch with no way of pulling free. His hands claw into him, and his own cock felt harder than he could ever imagine it being. His need was so sharp, it was the only bit of clarity he had, but it was a need that encompassed Mettaton's own, was intrinsically tied to it, and he knew, in some fathomless way, that he could only be satisfied by feeling the thickness of his lover's come spilling down his throat. A heat that would put all else to shame, and he'd squeeze it all from him, every drop- the massaging spasms of his neck would make sure of it.
Because of course he wanted his come, wanted to feel it and taste it and have it, to take this part of him even deeper, further than even his cock could reach.
A whine is trapped in his throat along with all the other sounds he can't make, strangled and lost to the ceaseless rubbing of Mettaton's erection. A pleading for his come, to fill him and mark him again; he was swallowing so studiously around him, he deserved it, he needed it, he required it. His chest burned, and his thoughts were disordered, impressions only of everything he wanted, of his lover's pounding, of his encroaching form towering over him, holding him, loving him.]