[There was a shifting of hips that was thoroughly agreeable to the Ascian, a further sign of his lover's anticipation for him, persistently aroused and unable to still. That it also served to further slide his erection against his face only counted as an endearing sort of gesture, and only has Emet-Selch bury himself that much more determinedly between his legs. A sight that he knew must be a pleasing one for his Bonded, to have him so close, so utterly intimate and prone, so utterly focused on pleasuring him above all else, and his clear enjoyment in doing so. It was a sight worth appreciating, he was certain, and a sign of possession and possessiveness that would be difficult to mistake.
Even if he were cleaned up and clothed, and their position not sexual in the least, their very connection felt like a taking and giving made indelible. That even were the Ascian not rendered bloodied and torn, voice reduced to a whisper, his state of possession would remain clear. But the added evidence, every scratch and ache... there was an added satisfaction in being so unnecessarily blatant in what they could take of each other. A shamelessness, a claim in return; for all that he couldn't permanently mark Mettaton's body, he was no less Emet-Selch's own possession.
A leg wraps loosely around him; another way of marking where the Ascian was intended to remain, a security of position. And a reassurance tied into it; so long as he was here, he had this task, and it was a most pleasurable one, full of his lover's scent and taste and sound, full of his heat, and the texture of his skin against his lips. And there was the promise Mettaton offered, in removing his breath, his thought, to further reduce his concerns to only this. So long as the Ascian had thoughts left to him, everything else lurked somewhere, a darkness of misery and guilt and loss, rather than only the darkness of his Bonded's embrace. A drowning in loneliness and fear, rather than the claws and teeth and cock of his lover.
It added to his anticipation, to his desperation, to reach that state once more, where nothing other than Mettaton could reach him, however briefly.
Mettaton's sharp reaction to his teeth stills his breath, and when Emet-Selch finally exhales it's in the form of a moan- the sound almost entirely swallowed up by how hard his face was pressed into the man's crotch, pushed there by the thrust of hips, and kept there through the fingers in his hair, and his own desire to remain. But Mettaton felt so thick against his still-bleeding lips, a point of soreness that felt insignificant compared to the ache in his throat- and much like when the idol took him from behind, he's fascinated by his body's ability to contain him. That he could fit him so tightly, so... snug. He could adapt to his girth to precisely the right degree, with no consequence other than a bit of lingering soreness in various areas, and a period of time of being starved of oxygen. Neither was detrimental, rewards he would accept alongside his come.
There was a pleasure in teasing him, and there was also a pleasure in giving Mettaton exactly what he wanted. And in the end Emet-Selch knew he was teasing himself just as much in his delay, by skirting swollen lips slowly up his lover's cock, never quite reaching the head- before sliding back down to the root. Every encouraging thrust and shift on Mettaton's part only furthered his teasing, led to kisses growing hotter and wetter, and needier still. A way of working out his natural contrariness, perhaps, before finally giving in to what he wanted just as dearly.
Both thighs were around him now. Not tight, not yet, not when he hadn't yet taken him properly into his mouth. Nudging his head upward, his lips remain in contact with Mettaton's cock, unwilling to leave him for a moment. Inhaling shakily as he reaches the ridge, he slows without intending to, captivated by the way it felt against his lips, his bitten one catching on it for a moment before being being tugged onward. Soft and hard both, and so familiar. Moaning with a rapturous quiet, he laps and sucks over the slit, leaving him wet with both saliva and blood; he's already practically drooling on him.]
Mettaton, I-- How much I....
[Love this, love him? Want both this and him? Something else entirely but equally as important? Emet-Selch couldn't decide, as his eyes flicker open, glancing up to his lover's face, his breathing quick, and something like a plea in his gaze. For what- he's not certain of that either, but it likely involves both loving and having him. But it's only for a few seconds before his head has darted lower, lips fully parted as he takes as much of his cock in his mouth as he can fit while still technically breathing- and with such a quickness that he nearly chokes on the brush of the glans at the back of his throat. Taking a moment to steady himself, he shivers, sucking hard at him with eyes closed once more, clearly starved for him and this experience.]
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Even if he were cleaned up and clothed, and their position not sexual in the least, their very connection felt like a taking and giving made indelible. That even were the Ascian not rendered bloodied and torn, voice reduced to a whisper, his state of possession would remain clear. But the added evidence, every scratch and ache... there was an added satisfaction in being so unnecessarily blatant in what they could take of each other. A shamelessness, a claim in return; for all that he couldn't permanently mark Mettaton's body, he was no less Emet-Selch's own possession.
A leg wraps loosely around him; another way of marking where the Ascian was intended to remain, a security of position. And a reassurance tied into it; so long as he was here, he had this task, and it was a most pleasurable one, full of his lover's scent and taste and sound, full of his heat, and the texture of his skin against his lips. And there was the promise Mettaton offered, in removing his breath, his thought, to further reduce his concerns to only this. So long as the Ascian had thoughts left to him, everything else lurked somewhere, a darkness of misery and guilt and loss, rather than only the darkness of his Bonded's embrace. A drowning in loneliness and fear, rather than the claws and teeth and cock of his lover.
It added to his anticipation, to his desperation, to reach that state once more, where nothing other than Mettaton could reach him, however briefly.
Mettaton's sharp reaction to his teeth stills his breath, and when Emet-Selch finally exhales it's in the form of a moan- the sound almost entirely swallowed up by how hard his face was pressed into the man's crotch, pushed there by the thrust of hips, and kept there through the fingers in his hair, and his own desire to remain. But Mettaton felt so thick against his still-bleeding lips, a point of soreness that felt insignificant compared to the ache in his throat- and much like when the idol took him from behind, he's fascinated by his body's ability to contain him. That he could fit him so tightly, so... snug. He could adapt to his girth to precisely the right degree, with no consequence other than a bit of lingering soreness in various areas, and a period of time of being starved of oxygen. Neither was detrimental, rewards he would accept alongside his come.
There was a pleasure in teasing him, and there was also a pleasure in giving Mettaton exactly what he wanted. And in the end Emet-Selch knew he was teasing himself just as much in his delay, by skirting swollen lips slowly up his lover's cock, never quite reaching the head- before sliding back down to the root. Every encouraging thrust and shift on Mettaton's part only furthered his teasing, led to kisses growing hotter and wetter, and needier still. A way of working out his natural contrariness, perhaps, before finally giving in to what he wanted just as dearly.
Both thighs were around him now. Not tight, not yet, not when he hadn't yet taken him properly into his mouth. Nudging his head upward, his lips remain in contact with Mettaton's cock, unwilling to leave him for a moment. Inhaling shakily as he reaches the ridge, he slows without intending to, captivated by the way it felt against his lips, his bitten one catching on it for a moment before being being tugged onward. Soft and hard both, and so familiar. Moaning with a rapturous quiet, he laps and sucks over the slit, leaving him wet with both saliva and blood; he's already practically drooling on him.]
Mettaton, I-- How much I....
[Love this, love him? Want both this and him? Something else entirely but equally as important? Emet-Selch couldn't decide, as his eyes flicker open, glancing up to his lover's face, his breathing quick, and something like a plea in his gaze. For what- he's not certain of that either, but it likely involves both loving and having him. But it's only for a few seconds before his head has darted lower, lips fully parted as he takes as much of his cock in his mouth as he can fit while still technically breathing- and with such a quickness that he nearly chokes on the brush of the glans at the back of his throat. Taking a moment to steady himself, he shivers, sucking hard at him with eyes closed once more, clearly starved for him and this experience.]