[It felt both mercy and tease, to have Mettaton leaning over, taking his cock in his hand for a bit of attention, the Ascian's hips doing their best to jerk and writhe up into his hold, as though starved for touch. Yet not as starved as his throat felt, as the rest of him was, for the feeling of Mettaton's own cock. His own breathing is fast and damp, quick exhalations over the glans as he mouths it, and slick spreadings of saliva and blood smear around his lips without concern, not caring at all that he was already drooling a bit around him in his zealousness for his length.
And he knew this wouldn't be the last, that sucking his lover off again wouldn't begin to be enough, wouldn't truly bring either of them to any lingering satisfaction. And that didn't daunt him, and wouldn't stop him; it only meant he could continue to suck and lick, to nuzzle and keep his face buried between Mettaton's legs, to drag him towards his next climax while he still had his come at his lips from the previous. While his own release would yet lay warm and wet against his own body, more to spread, more to drip between them. However Mettaton wanted to sate himself in his body, trapping him between thighs or mounting and fucking him, the Ascian was willing to indulge- even demanding his own use. He loved him, and he loved them together.
Tenderly, almost, Emet-Selch feels one hand captured, brought over to rest against his own throat, a finger encouraged to drag along the length of it. A suggestion that in itself calls to mind what had already rested there, and when he feels himself swallow, it's followed with a shiver as he imagines what that must've felt like to Mettaton. And what it would feel like to himself, to appreciate the stiffness he would be managing to contain in an additional dimension. It would be something like when Mettaton dragged his hand to feel how they were joined when he was fucking him, to feel the way his body had adapted around him, had stretched around his girth, slick and hot. This would be distinct, but related; another way of being fully penetrated by him, and another way of feeling that thickness resting, thrusting into his body. His own body tightens, anticipatory.
And Emet-Selch wondered if, later on, in some unrelated context, a simple stroking along his neck could lead to a recalling of these moments, of an erection stuffed into his throat, his face smothered between Mettaton's thighs, marked and claimed. Of being wrapped in darkness and heat, impaled on a cock and stroked by it until the both of them were brought to climax. And how easily, would he be made aroused from the association, the memory; would his throat tighten in a connection made, an expectation for what should be there? Would he stop breathing for a few seconds, as though assuming, naturally, that he would be unable to?
Already, he can imagine the distraction it would bring, but what was one more touch to arouse him, when Mettaton could already do so with ease?
Mettaton did always ask him things while making it difficult to speak. But this was another level again on top of that, expecting a response while pressing the head of his cock past his lips, when he not only had the physical act of sucking on him to contend with (as how could he not be drawn to laving attention over it, having his tongue stroke and explore as much of the ridge as it could reach; by dwelling on the way his lips could surround him, in a soft, yet tight grip, made to mold against his flesh, how slippery he was already, from his adorations), but the distraction of his own arousal, his own needs. His fingers dig a little into his throat, as though he were already looking for Mettaton there, already anticipating him sliding into him, stretching it out; he agitates the clotting claw marks Mettaton had already left on him, causing any touch to his neck to be made slightly bloodier.]
I-- [This was going to be difficult. Salivating around him already, Emet-Selch still has the capacity to swallow it for now, if without particular ease. He does so, before attempting to continue.] Desperately. I need your taste, your heat, your... you to fill me, until- until I...
[His breathing wants to pant; the rest of him wanted to lose himself to a devotion applied to the head of Mettaton's cock; he steadies himself with a few seconds of sucking sharply around him, groaning in the abject, wanton pleasure of it, and of him. The fingers of his free hand dig into the covers of the bed. Thusly mollified, he tries again.]
Just the thought of you- losing yourself to my- throat. My body. How many times- can you...? I want... I--
[None of this comes out with particular clarity, considering as it's spoken as though he has a large object in his mouth. But Emet-Selch is nothing if not determined, nor particularly self-conscious about the way he sounds. Putting words to his desires and feelings remained the most difficult part; it was far easier to demonstrate what he wanted by trying to lean up, to slide more of Mettaton's length past his lips, to surround him in dampness and heat, to rub him onward with his tongue. There even is, perhaps, a careful scrape of teeth against the shaft, a gentle suggestion of pressure- and somehow, an encouragement to press deeper, to give him the whole of his erection.]
no subject
And he knew this wouldn't be the last, that sucking his lover off again wouldn't begin to be enough, wouldn't truly bring either of them to any lingering satisfaction. And that didn't daunt him, and wouldn't stop him; it only meant he could continue to suck and lick, to nuzzle and keep his face buried between Mettaton's legs, to drag him towards his next climax while he still had his come at his lips from the previous. While his own release would yet lay warm and wet against his own body, more to spread, more to drip between them. However Mettaton wanted to sate himself in his body, trapping him between thighs or mounting and fucking him, the Ascian was willing to indulge- even demanding his own use. He loved him, and he loved them together.
Tenderly, almost, Emet-Selch feels one hand captured, brought over to rest against his own throat, a finger encouraged to drag along the length of it. A suggestion that in itself calls to mind what had already rested there, and when he feels himself swallow, it's followed with a shiver as he imagines what that must've felt like to Mettaton. And what it would feel like to himself, to appreciate the stiffness he would be managing to contain in an additional dimension. It would be something like when Mettaton dragged his hand to feel how they were joined when he was fucking him, to feel the way his body had adapted around him, had stretched around his girth, slick and hot. This would be distinct, but related; another way of being fully penetrated by him, and another way of feeling that thickness resting, thrusting into his body. His own body tightens, anticipatory.
And Emet-Selch wondered if, later on, in some unrelated context, a simple stroking along his neck could lead to a recalling of these moments, of an erection stuffed into his throat, his face smothered between Mettaton's thighs, marked and claimed. Of being wrapped in darkness and heat, impaled on a cock and stroked by it until the both of them were brought to climax. And how easily, would he be made aroused from the association, the memory; would his throat tighten in a connection made, an expectation for what should be there? Would he stop breathing for a few seconds, as though assuming, naturally, that he would be unable to?
Already, he can imagine the distraction it would bring, but what was one more touch to arouse him, when Mettaton could already do so with ease?
Mettaton did always ask him things while making it difficult to speak. But this was another level again on top of that, expecting a response while pressing the head of his cock past his lips, when he not only had the physical act of sucking on him to contend with (as how could he not be drawn to laving attention over it, having his tongue stroke and explore as much of the ridge as it could reach; by dwelling on the way his lips could surround him, in a soft, yet tight grip, made to mold against his flesh, how slippery he was already, from his adorations), but the distraction of his own arousal, his own needs. His fingers dig a little into his throat, as though he were already looking for Mettaton there, already anticipating him sliding into him, stretching it out; he agitates the clotting claw marks Mettaton had already left on him, causing any touch to his neck to be made slightly bloodier.]
I-- [This was going to be difficult. Salivating around him already, Emet-Selch still has the capacity to swallow it for now, if without particular ease. He does so, before attempting to continue.] Desperately. I need your taste, your heat, your... you to fill me, until- until I...
[His breathing wants to pant; the rest of him wanted to lose himself to a devotion applied to the head of Mettaton's cock; he steadies himself with a few seconds of sucking sharply around him, groaning in the abject, wanton pleasure of it, and of him. The fingers of his free hand dig into the covers of the bed. Thusly mollified, he tries again.]
Just the thought of you- losing yourself to my- throat. My body. How many times- can you...? I want... I--
[None of this comes out with particular clarity, considering as it's spoken as though he has a large object in his mouth. But Emet-Selch is nothing if not determined, nor particularly self-conscious about the way he sounds. Putting words to his desires and feelings remained the most difficult part; it was far easier to demonstrate what he wanted by trying to lean up, to slide more of Mettaton's length past his lips, to surround him in dampness and heat, to rub him onward with his tongue. There even is, perhaps, a careful scrape of teeth against the shaft, a gentle suggestion of pressure- and somehow, an encouragement to press deeper, to give him the whole of his erection.]