[What was marriage but a public, socially-acceptable way of taking his beloved? Considering the way they regarded one another, a fascination that existed outside of sensible boundaries, could ever such a union be conducted in a way that could be considered decent? That did not make it clear that they were, at most, only ever about two steps away from falling onto one another? Would they even care about how blatant they were about it?
While Bonds were, strictly speaking, more personal, in that they involved the connection of souls- they were also normalized to a degree, an aspect of survival. And so there were any number of Bonds that were friendly only, or out of survival or convenience. Barring a marriage for political purpose (which would hardly be the case for any Mirrorbound), it would be a ceremony purely for excessive romantic, emotional, sentimental reasons. A formality explicitly for love, with a ceremony that could be as grand or modest as required, and not an inherently more private affair attended by a circle of uninterested witches casting the appropriate magic.
It would be... an occasion, by any standard. A thought that occasionally still fills Emet-Selch with dread- for all that he continues to return to it.
Through the steady waves of his own euphoria, muscles twinging in much of his body even as it primarily slackens, his throat remains undeterred, still assuming suffocation wasn't a normal state to be in, still spasming around the length that Mettaton continued to feed him. Jerks of his hips that felt like they rocked more than his body, the Ascian wondered (or rather, would wonder, once he had the breath for thought and the time for it) whether he would ever be spared a chance to come down from arousal. Every thrust, especially when paired with the quick pulls over the head of his own cock, felt as though they extended the moment of his own climax, squeezed more come from him until he was spent- and yet not spent at all. How could he ever be, with Mettaton's erection down his throat, his hips at his face, his cries in his ears?
Emet-Selch squeezes his throat with one hand, drags and rubs desperately along his length through his neck, grabbing onto the shape he could feel moving there, to coax and knead him towards climax. And his other hand finds itself occupied with Mettaton's, willingly switching from latching onto the bed to latching onto him, fingers clutching, barely noticing the pressure of claws, the piercing of his palm as they dug in. What were a few more bleeding marks but another way to bind their bodies together?
And he trembles more with a new wave of satisfaction when he feels heat flooding him, his lover's spasms rewarded. His throat convulses; he swallows harder and keeps swallowing as though it were trying to wring all it could from him, rather than yet trying to breathe. It felt like the sort of thing he could continue doing forever, drinking down his come, feeling it run down his throat in hot bursts- or would do, given the opportunity, until his vision faded, and his mind lost its last glimmers of awareness.
But then Mettaton pulls out of him, and the Ascian's throat is filled with something as insubstantial as air once more. The sudden sucking in of it leads to coughing gasps, harder than before with nothing in his mouth to contain them, and wetter-sounding, with the release that had just been left behind. A thick presence in itself, but one that could be successfully cleared with enough swallowing, no matter how sore he felt. Emet-Selch still groans, a sound low and rougher than before, submersed entirely in the aftermath of their shared climaxes. His hand lies still at his empty throat, feeling instead the force of his breaths, his coughs.
And the world is made dark all over again, even when his eyes open- though it's not unconsciousness he realizes after a moment (how could it be, when he was aware of it, thinking about it whatsoever, for all that it's in the most vague terms that could barely be qualified as thought). But instead, the pressure and closeness of his lover's robotic chest pressing down on him, impairing his vision and his breath (though the latter is hardly to the degree as his cock). And amidst his panting against that shell, his coughing that brings a taste of come to his lips to mingle with blood from his lip, he nuzzles against whatever part of Mettaton he could reach. It's a nuzzling that he'd begun conducting before he'd even concretely identified the part of Mettaton he was touching, only knowing that it belonged to his lover, and should therefore be kissed.
But he would nuzzle his chest, and cough and moan quietly against it, leaving it with hints of blood, not really noticing the imprint left in his face from that dial, and not really caring anyway.]
no subject
While Bonds were, strictly speaking, more personal, in that they involved the connection of souls- they were also normalized to a degree, an aspect of survival. And so there were any number of Bonds that were friendly only, or out of survival or convenience. Barring a marriage for political purpose (which would hardly be the case for any Mirrorbound), it would be a ceremony purely for excessive romantic, emotional, sentimental reasons. A formality explicitly for love, with a ceremony that could be as grand or modest as required, and not an inherently more private affair attended by a circle of uninterested witches casting the appropriate magic.
It would be... an occasion, by any standard. A thought that occasionally still fills Emet-Selch with dread- for all that he continues to return to it.
Through the steady waves of his own euphoria, muscles twinging in much of his body even as it primarily slackens, his throat remains undeterred, still assuming suffocation wasn't a normal state to be in, still spasming around the length that Mettaton continued to feed him. Jerks of his hips that felt like they rocked more than his body, the Ascian wondered (or rather, would wonder, once he had the breath for thought and the time for it) whether he would ever be spared a chance to come down from arousal. Every thrust, especially when paired with the quick pulls over the head of his own cock, felt as though they extended the moment of his own climax, squeezed more come from him until he was spent- and yet not spent at all. How could he ever be, with Mettaton's erection down his throat, his hips at his face, his cries in his ears?
Emet-Selch squeezes his throat with one hand, drags and rubs desperately along his length through his neck, grabbing onto the shape he could feel moving there, to coax and knead him towards climax. And his other hand finds itself occupied with Mettaton's, willingly switching from latching onto the bed to latching onto him, fingers clutching, barely noticing the pressure of claws, the piercing of his palm as they dug in. What were a few more bleeding marks but another way to bind their bodies together?
And he trembles more with a new wave of satisfaction when he feels heat flooding him, his lover's spasms rewarded. His throat convulses; he swallows harder and keeps swallowing as though it were trying to wring all it could from him, rather than yet trying to breathe. It felt like the sort of thing he could continue doing forever, drinking down his come, feeling it run down his throat in hot bursts- or would do, given the opportunity, until his vision faded, and his mind lost its last glimmers of awareness.
But then Mettaton pulls out of him, and the Ascian's throat is filled with something as insubstantial as air once more. The sudden sucking in of it leads to coughing gasps, harder than before with nothing in his mouth to contain them, and wetter-sounding, with the release that had just been left behind. A thick presence in itself, but one that could be successfully cleared with enough swallowing, no matter how sore he felt. Emet-Selch still groans, a sound low and rougher than before, submersed entirely in the aftermath of their shared climaxes. His hand lies still at his empty throat, feeling instead the force of his breaths, his coughs.
And the world is made dark all over again, even when his eyes open- though it's not unconsciousness he realizes after a moment (how could it be, when he was aware of it, thinking about it whatsoever, for all that it's in the most vague terms that could barely be qualified as thought). But instead, the pressure and closeness of his lover's robotic chest pressing down on him, impairing his vision and his breath (though the latter is hardly to the degree as his cock). And amidst his panting against that shell, his coughing that brings a taste of come to his lips to mingle with blood from his lip, he nuzzles against whatever part of Mettaton he could reach. It's a nuzzling that he'd begun conducting before he'd even concretely identified the part of Mettaton he was touching, only knowing that it belonged to his lover, and should therefore be kissed.
But he would nuzzle his chest, and cough and moan quietly against it, leaving it with hints of blood, not really noticing the imprint left in his face from that dial, and not really caring anyway.]