[His gasp is sharp against his lips, when ineffective thrusting finally gives way to a press against his body, his own hips writhing upward against Mettaton's when they're pressed together, at the sensation of that stiffness dragging and rubbing against his own cock. Oversensitive but wanting him too much to care, Emet-Selch takes full advantage of this offering, panting against his lips, nipping and sucking in reply. Even when Mettaton digs teeth into his wound he only shudders at the taste of blood drenching his mouth, and moreso at the way the puca drinks from it, pulling more of the fluid from the injury.
The pain in his lip provides clarity and takes it away, a particular sharpness that mingles with the rest of his arousal, mingles with the taste of blood and Mettaton until there was little else to experience, and nothing else worth experiencing. Emet-Selch laps at him between quickened breaths, pushing his wounded lip against his mouth as though expecting it to be ever agitated and sucked on, made swollen and tender. And it was easy, so easy to remember how that wound had felt when pressed to the shaft of Mettaton's cock, the drag of it against flesh made unspeakably stiff, every kiss on him a trail of blood. In comparison to his suffocation, it had become a background note of stinging ache, but it hadn't been forgotten. It had been another ripple of feeling.
A feeling that he was already imagining having again, parting his lips and wrapping them around his erection once more. Lapping and sucking on him with particular rapture, losing his senses and his sense to him, depriving himself of thought and air alike. How much of his voice could be stolen, rendered ever raspier and faint, a feeling that would remain even when he was permitted breath again, a reminder on each inhalation of all he should be grateful for.
The only consolation of Mettaton pulling back from his rubbing is the sight of him again, Emet-Selch likewise stilling at what he had noticed, the way his spilled come had been spread between them, a sticky-looking smear against glans and shaft. And he swallows thickly (a reminder of soreness, of how empty his throat felt--), yearning for the sight of it to only spread, to provide ever more, and to taste it--
He moans on an exhalation without even noticing, eyes fixed on his length with a similar hunger. A hunger that he makes no attempt to hide when he meets Mettaton's sharp gaze again, a look he could lose himself to. And his own cock begins to refill with a readiness that can only dizzy him. Even his body shifts underneath him, restless and wanting.]
Then neither of us will stop. How- fortunate, we are....
[But if there was going to be a distraction from Mettaton's cock, then the removal of clothing was an appropriate and desirable one, Emet-Selch shifting and lifting his arm to get the fabric away from him and tossed aside. To let the span of bruises and blood be appropriately visible, available to be both developed and admired. There was already a pleasing soreness to his shoulder and neck, the sort of thing he only wanted to stretch, to keep those injuries from clotting too thoroughly, even when Mettaton's attention was occupied elsewhere.
Because even better than that was the lowering of Mettaton's body to his abdomen, and the Ascian tenses with a sharp sound at the sight of him licking at what come remained there, and more at the stroke of claws against his stiffening length. And from there, the rest of his body was revealed, Mettaton dragging the remainder of the fabric down his thighs, pushing his legs around, with Emet-Selch doing what he could to cooperate.
And the reward for that moment of patience was more than commensurate, as he was faced with the sight of Mettaton spreading his thighs apart and viewing all he'd just exposed, his head lowering to grace those areas with his lips and teeth and tongue. Breath hitching sharply, Emet-Selch pushes himself up to watch him better, both the warm attention of Mettaton's mouth applied to his balls, and the sucking pressure that would surely lead to new bruises at his thighs. Bruises so deeply, so intimately placed that it felt like an extra bit of claiming that only they could ever know of.]
With frequency. [An admission, an acknowledgement, given in a soft tone, a shuddered breath. Moving an arm, he strokes at his lover's ears with surpassing gentleness.] At the sight, I desire you. Even the thought- of- of what lies beneath my clothing is enough.
[Squeezing along his ear, he feels blood drip down his chin but ignores it, eyes fixed on his lover's acts.]
How often I want to seek you out, wherever you are- to show you the effect you've had, your disruption.
no subject
The pain in his lip provides clarity and takes it away, a particular sharpness that mingles with the rest of his arousal, mingles with the taste of blood and Mettaton until there was little else to experience, and nothing else worth experiencing. Emet-Selch laps at him between quickened breaths, pushing his wounded lip against his mouth as though expecting it to be ever agitated and sucked on, made swollen and tender. And it was easy, so easy to remember how that wound had felt when pressed to the shaft of Mettaton's cock, the drag of it against flesh made unspeakably stiff, every kiss on him a trail of blood. In comparison to his suffocation, it had become a background note of stinging ache, but it hadn't been forgotten. It had been another ripple of feeling.
A feeling that he was already imagining having again, parting his lips and wrapping them around his erection once more. Lapping and sucking on him with particular rapture, losing his senses and his sense to him, depriving himself of thought and air alike. How much of his voice could be stolen, rendered ever raspier and faint, a feeling that would remain even when he was permitted breath again, a reminder on each inhalation of all he should be grateful for.
The only consolation of Mettaton pulling back from his rubbing is the sight of him again, Emet-Selch likewise stilling at what he had noticed, the way his spilled come had been spread between them, a sticky-looking smear against glans and shaft. And he swallows thickly (a reminder of soreness, of how empty his throat felt--), yearning for the sight of it to only spread, to provide ever more, and to taste it--
He moans on an exhalation without even noticing, eyes fixed on his length with a similar hunger. A hunger that he makes no attempt to hide when he meets Mettaton's sharp gaze again, a look he could lose himself to. And his own cock begins to refill with a readiness that can only dizzy him. Even his body shifts underneath him, restless and wanting.]
Then neither of us will stop. How- fortunate, we are....
[But if there was going to be a distraction from Mettaton's cock, then the removal of clothing was an appropriate and desirable one, Emet-Selch shifting and lifting his arm to get the fabric away from him and tossed aside. To let the span of bruises and blood be appropriately visible, available to be both developed and admired. There was already a pleasing soreness to his shoulder and neck, the sort of thing he only wanted to stretch, to keep those injuries from clotting too thoroughly, even when Mettaton's attention was occupied elsewhere.
Because even better than that was the lowering of Mettaton's body to his abdomen, and the Ascian tenses with a sharp sound at the sight of him licking at what come remained there, and more at the stroke of claws against his stiffening length. And from there, the rest of his body was revealed, Mettaton dragging the remainder of the fabric down his thighs, pushing his legs around, with Emet-Selch doing what he could to cooperate.
And the reward for that moment of patience was more than commensurate, as he was faced with the sight of Mettaton spreading his thighs apart and viewing all he'd just exposed, his head lowering to grace those areas with his lips and teeth and tongue. Breath hitching sharply, Emet-Selch pushes himself up to watch him better, both the warm attention of Mettaton's mouth applied to his balls, and the sucking pressure that would surely lead to new bruises at his thighs. Bruises so deeply, so intimately placed that it felt like an extra bit of claiming that only they could ever know of.]
With frequency. [An admission, an acknowledgement, given in a soft tone, a shuddered breath. Moving an arm, he strokes at his lover's ears with surpassing gentleness.] At the sight, I desire you. Even the thought- of- of what lies beneath my clothing is enough.
[Squeezing along his ear, he feels blood drip down his chin but ignores it, eyes fixed on his lover's acts.]
How often I want to seek you out, wherever you are- to show you the effect you've had, your disruption.