[Life became very simple when one couldn't think. There was no history to drown in, no future to recoil from. There was nothing outside of this: his lover's cock at his lips, the feeling of it stretching down his throat, every thrust and push and shudder, and his dedication to keeping it there. For these moments, this was all that he was meant to be doing, all he could do, was to please Mettaton and himself in the process, to give up his air, his body to him, to be a source of heat and tightness and attention. To love every aspect of what Mettaton was giving him, whether it was every inch of his erection to suck and choke on, or the impending consequence of roughening his throat, or the presence of claws and bleeding wounds that decorated the body that belonged to him. Without thought it was straightforward, the trust Mettaton had gained manifesting into this, a love for being used by him.
The Ascian's nature was to be devotional, whether it was to a dark god he'd helped create, or to a people long dead. It was a part of him, intrinsic, if something difficult to provoke, leading to a perpetual sense of dissatisfaction when he had no valuable task before him. Who else was worth his effort, his relentless dedication? But there was fulfillment in being able to provide, and Mettaton gave him this.
It was freedom, to have thought removed, to have concern excised, to have his focus narrowed to the commitment of their bodies, and nothing more. There was no fight for survival other than the helpless spasming of his throat, a reaction that only served to squeeze and stroke at Mettaton's cock, only served to excite them both. But he wasn't afraid; he knew that Mettaton wouldn't hurt him. Suffocation could be turned into another tool for the seeking of ecstasy, something to stiffen his own length, heighten his needs into something more profound than any call for air.
Though he can't murmur any noise of approval, there's more than a suggestion of it nonetheless, when he feels the pressure of fingers around the root of his cock, a firm squeeze that moves to his balls, fondling and touching them; it felt an utter kindness, a gift provided in recognition of his devotion.
But he needed Mettaton as deeply as he could press, and he shudders hard, a sensation that felt protracted when that requirement is provided, when his face is shoved into his lover's body, flush and tight against him. When he could feel Mettaton's balls nudging his face with each thrust, each brief, heavy push into the depth of his throat. He tries to cry out, but only vibration remained. Only the echo of it reflected through Bond, and through every other line of his body, in his absolute love for this position, this treatment, this person. Who else would he want to be rendered so prone before, so wanting? Every sound Mettaton made only proved the rightness of what they were doing, and he wanted to hear his voice carried on noises like those for the rest of his life. For now, he had no other purpose, and there was a relief in that security that Emet-Selch felt with him that he doesn't understand.
And he swallows, because Mettaton wants him to; because he wants to himself, to feel his throat close further, tighter around his lover's erection. His hand strokes and prods along the full length of a neck made sore, bleeding from wounds reopened (as though they had ever had a chance to close), joined by the inspecting touch of the puca's own hand. It's enough to keep the muscles of his body taut, trembling, both from what he could feel through throat and hand, and what he knew Mettaton was feeling through hand and cock. That they could feel the whole length of him, trail finger down where his shaft was, and how far, how deeply he came to rest in him.
Not that there was much resting, as Mettaton continued to thrust, continued to push, and his hand ends up lying, squeezing over the part of his neck where he could feel his glans moving, able to feel himself swallowing desperately around him, as if trying to suck him deeper.
Everything was hazy and glorious, body arching, thighs trembling as Mettaton continues to handle his cock, providing attention to his own engorged length, painfully rigid, an ache to match that of his lungs, his throat. His free hand claws into the bed as his body squirms, though with nothing resembling any attempt to escape- only to try and meet the pounding of Mettaton's cock into his body, while pressing up against the hand at his own erection. His body would be panting hard if it could, but instead he continues to shudder, never wanting him to stop, never wanting to breathe again. This pain was more exquisite than his usual sort.]
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The Ascian's nature was to be devotional, whether it was to a dark god he'd helped create, or to a people long dead. It was a part of him, intrinsic, if something difficult to provoke, leading to a perpetual sense of dissatisfaction when he had no valuable task before him. Who else was worth his effort, his relentless dedication? But there was fulfillment in being able to provide, and Mettaton gave him this.
It was freedom, to have thought removed, to have concern excised, to have his focus narrowed to the commitment of their bodies, and nothing more. There was no fight for survival other than the helpless spasming of his throat, a reaction that only served to squeeze and stroke at Mettaton's cock, only served to excite them both. But he wasn't afraid; he knew that Mettaton wouldn't hurt him. Suffocation could be turned into another tool for the seeking of ecstasy, something to stiffen his own length, heighten his needs into something more profound than any call for air.
Though he can't murmur any noise of approval, there's more than a suggestion of it nonetheless, when he feels the pressure of fingers around the root of his cock, a firm squeeze that moves to his balls, fondling and touching them; it felt an utter kindness, a gift provided in recognition of his devotion.
But he needed Mettaton as deeply as he could press, and he shudders hard, a sensation that felt protracted when that requirement is provided, when his face is shoved into his lover's body, flush and tight against him. When he could feel Mettaton's balls nudging his face with each thrust, each brief, heavy push into the depth of his throat. He tries to cry out, but only vibration remained. Only the echo of it reflected through Bond, and through every other line of his body, in his absolute love for this position, this treatment, this person. Who else would he want to be rendered so prone before, so wanting? Every sound Mettaton made only proved the rightness of what they were doing, and he wanted to hear his voice carried on noises like those for the rest of his life. For now, he had no other purpose, and there was a relief in that security that Emet-Selch felt with him that he doesn't understand.
And he swallows, because Mettaton wants him to; because he wants to himself, to feel his throat close further, tighter around his lover's erection. His hand strokes and prods along the full length of a neck made sore, bleeding from wounds reopened (as though they had ever had a chance to close), joined by the inspecting touch of the puca's own hand. It's enough to keep the muscles of his body taut, trembling, both from what he could feel through throat and hand, and what he knew Mettaton was feeling through hand and cock. That they could feel the whole length of him, trail finger down where his shaft was, and how far, how deeply he came to rest in him.
Not that there was much resting, as Mettaton continued to thrust, continued to push, and his hand ends up lying, squeezing over the part of his neck where he could feel his glans moving, able to feel himself swallowing desperately around him, as if trying to suck him deeper.
Everything was hazy and glorious, body arching, thighs trembling as Mettaton continues to handle his cock, providing attention to his own engorged length, painfully rigid, an ache to match that of his lungs, his throat. His free hand claws into the bed as his body squirms, though with nothing resembling any attempt to escape- only to try and meet the pounding of Mettaton's cock into his body, while pressing up against the hand at his own erection. His body would be panting hard if it could, but instead he continues to shudder, never wanting him to stop, never wanting to breathe again. This pain was more exquisite than his usual sort.]