[But it's clarity enough for the idol, listening with ears poised contentedly with that slight akimbo lean, a suggestion of arousal enough to slip into. The way he spoke through drool and panting was enough to convey his lover's vast craving of him, he thought, even if he couldn't make out his words around the slick, soft glans. His attempt is appreciated, and his efforts don't go missed. His fingers stroke along the back of Emet-Selch's, a gentle touch to reassure him not only to remain in eager wait, but that he'd soon enough feel his rapture, speech the key to earning it.
A sharp suck around his cock has Mettaton sucking in air through gritted teeth, a short, rapturous moan slipping from his throat and the desperate urge to pound into him for his neediness, to meet that desperation with the brunt of his own. And he would, he'd show Emet-Selch that he's not the only one wanting, but he demands to hear his lover's desires before his words are robbed of air. His hips are restrained, an obvious tension as he shifts his legs in greedy anticipation, in gradually crumbling composure. He could find himself sucked off by Emet-Selch all day and not tire of it, he thought. No, for longer, he's sure. He could drown in the feeling of his throat, just as he suffocates Emet-Selch in a more literal sense; and he wonders how it would feel to grip down onto his neck and pound into a throat made deliberately tight, impossible for his lover to take in air while Mettaton occupies that space instead. It wasn't as though he'd be getting any air to begin with, and it wasn't as though he needed it, not with Mettaton stuffing his throat. He'd spasm and tense and it would be so tight and warm, and the thought itself has Mettaton letting out an extraneous moan in the middle of Emet-Selch's confession.
But he listens to it all. How many times? How many indeed. Mettaton calculates this number idly, the possibilities, while hearing Emet-Selchs desperation manifest as statements of "I want." He knows what he wants. He wants his throat full, his body used, choking on come and dripping with it, both his own and Mettaton's. Mettaton groans and smirks, biting at his lower lip at the crazed want shared between them, and why abstain? Emet-Selch's said his piece. He's already stretching with neck and reaching with tongue, leaning to swallow more of his shaft between lips made swollen and split, and—]
Mnnh. Oh. Demanding.
[Teeth graze along his length. To Mettaton who relishes sensation of the most intense caliber, the slight drag of teeth along his shaft is a welcome catalyst to unleash a part of him more fierce and possessive, an expression of desire so crystal clear that he can't possibly think to deny Emet-Selch any longer. A welcome invitation, an obvious demonstration of Emet-Selch's complete desire of him. How flattered he feels, how perfectly recognized for his desirability.
Displacing his fingers and leaving Emet-Selch to probe at his own neck, Mettaton strokes along the front of his throat with the firm scrape of his claws, coaxing Emet-Selch to swallow. His fingers drift to the corner of Emet-Selch's lips, soundlessly reminding him to open wide with the tug of his lower lip, to yield to a thick intrusion that would feel even thicker in his neck, exhaling a note of anticipatory want, low and smooth and fond, before he pushes deeper into his throat. Slow, firm, undeniable, he pushes his cock to the back of Emet-Selch's mouth, and his fingers flit back to his throat for more control.
A stroke this time with his thumb to the side of his throat, urging him to expect his filling, to swallow him down, to fit his girth in his throat. Mettaton sighs, but that sigh breaks way into needy, shorter panting, exhalations of heat as his ears obey gravity and flop to the side.]
Now that you've spoken... your desires. You're not the only... hah. Only desperate one between us...
[Mettaton's practically slavering over this, his mind a reel of Emet-Selch sucking and swallowing and salivating and moaning around his cock, the size of him pronounced and full in his throat, Emet-Selch's ministrations dedicated down to the last as he shoved his face dearly into his throat with only bodily protests remaining. His body, every reaction writ into it is for Mettaton's adoration and audience, and he can't wait to see him writhe, his fingers cling, his back arch, his cock hard and entirely available for Mettaton's encouragement and enjoyment both. He wants to watch him erupt in orgasm, to see come gush from the tip of him, and he licks his lips in that desire. But that's then. For now, he has the anticipation of his lover's to seek, to feel him wanting and needing his cock, and he can fulfill that desire by giving him everything.
It's with that stroke of a warning given that Mettaton rolls his hips some more, erection slipping smoothly into Emet-Selch's throat. He moans and gives way to some of his own need, that composure slipping into firm thrusts, his voice carried on moans through a bitten lip as the Puca leans some of the weight of his cock down Emet-Selch's throat. He curves each short thrust, feeling the way the glans rubs along the squeezing, supple texture of his Bonded's throat, and he deliberately avoids feeling for his neck at the moment, leaving Emet-Selch to enjoy that solo. He groans, unable to stop himself, unable to quit this rhythmic rocking, losing himself to this immense pleasure already.]
[Mettaton sighs again, his other hand rubbing firm circles close to the base of Emet-Selch's cock — flirting with his length, teasing the chance of a direct touch that he'll soon receive.]
no subject
A sharp suck around his cock has Mettaton sucking in air through gritted teeth, a short, rapturous moan slipping from his throat and the desperate urge to pound into him for his neediness, to meet that desperation with the brunt of his own. And he would, he'd show Emet-Selch that he's not the only one wanting, but he demands to hear his lover's desires before his words are robbed of air. His hips are restrained, an obvious tension as he shifts his legs in greedy anticipation, in gradually crumbling composure. He could find himself sucked off by Emet-Selch all day and not tire of it, he thought. No, for longer, he's sure. He could drown in the feeling of his throat, just as he suffocates Emet-Selch in a more literal sense; and he wonders how it would feel to grip down onto his neck and pound into a throat made deliberately tight, impossible for his lover to take in air while Mettaton occupies that space instead. It wasn't as though he'd be getting any air to begin with, and it wasn't as though he needed it, not with Mettaton stuffing his throat. He'd spasm and tense and it would be so tight and warm, and the thought itself has Mettaton letting out an extraneous moan in the middle of Emet-Selch's confession.
But he listens to it all. How many times? How many indeed. Mettaton calculates this number idly, the possibilities, while hearing Emet-Selchs desperation manifest as statements of "I want." He knows what he wants. He wants his throat full, his body used, choking on come and dripping with it, both his own and Mettaton's. Mettaton groans and smirks, biting at his lower lip at the crazed want shared between them, and why abstain? Emet-Selch's said his piece. He's already stretching with neck and reaching with tongue, leaning to swallow more of his shaft between lips made swollen and split, and—]
Mnnh. Oh. Demanding.
[Teeth graze along his length. To Mettaton who relishes sensation of the most intense caliber, the slight drag of teeth along his shaft is a welcome catalyst to unleash a part of him more fierce and possessive, an expression of desire so crystal clear that he can't possibly think to deny Emet-Selch any longer. A welcome invitation, an obvious demonstration of Emet-Selch's complete desire of him. How flattered he feels, how perfectly recognized for his desirability.
Displacing his fingers and leaving Emet-Selch to probe at his own neck, Mettaton strokes along the front of his throat with the firm scrape of his claws, coaxing Emet-Selch to swallow. His fingers drift to the corner of Emet-Selch's lips, soundlessly reminding him to open wide with the tug of his lower lip, to yield to a thick intrusion that would feel even thicker in his neck, exhaling a note of anticipatory want, low and smooth and fond, before he pushes deeper into his throat. Slow, firm, undeniable, he pushes his cock to the back of Emet-Selch's mouth, and his fingers flit back to his throat for more control.
A stroke this time with his thumb to the side of his throat, urging him to expect his filling, to swallow him down, to fit his girth in his throat. Mettaton sighs, but that sigh breaks way into needy, shorter panting, exhalations of heat as his ears obey gravity and flop to the side.]
Now that you've spoken... your desires. You're not the only... hah. Only desperate one between us...
[Mettaton's practically slavering over this, his mind a reel of Emet-Selch sucking and swallowing and salivating and moaning around his cock, the size of him pronounced and full in his throat, Emet-Selch's ministrations dedicated down to the last as he shoved his face dearly into his throat with only bodily protests remaining. His body, every reaction writ into it is for Mettaton's adoration and audience, and he can't wait to see him writhe, his fingers cling, his back arch, his cock hard and entirely available for Mettaton's encouragement and enjoyment both. He wants to watch him erupt in orgasm, to see come gush from the tip of him, and he licks his lips in that desire. But that's then. For now, he has the anticipation of his lover's to seek, to feel him wanting and needing his cock, and he can fulfill that desire by giving him everything.
It's with that stroke of a warning given that Mettaton rolls his hips some more, erection slipping smoothly into Emet-Selch's throat. He moans and gives way to some of his own need, that composure slipping into firm thrusts, his voice carried on moans through a bitten lip as the Puca leans some of the weight of his cock down Emet-Selch's throat. He curves each short thrust, feeling the way the glans rubs along the squeezing, supple texture of his Bonded's throat, and he deliberately avoids feeling for his neck at the moment, leaving Emet-Selch to enjoy that solo. He groans, unable to stop himself, unable to quit this rhythmic rocking, losing himself to this immense pleasure already.]
Ohh, darling, yes— f... feel that, you're so- ah-
[Mettaton sighs again, his other hand rubbing firm circles close to the base of Emet-Selch's cock — flirting with his length, teasing the chance of a direct touch that he'll soon receive.]