[As Mettaton appreciated the sound of his name on his voice, the Ascian was similarly affected, breath catching even when he should be breathing as much as possible while he can, briefly overwhelmed by just the sound of it. Particularly when it was matched by the jerks of Mettaton's body, and a gratified sort of pleasure filled him, loving him for his response. For the hands that gripped and stroked at his hair, and were his mouth not full of his erection, he might even tell him so. And were he not focused on keeping his head lowered, he might even press up into those pets, appreciating it for both the affection inherent in the gesture, as well as the reassurance of being held to his cock.
He had... a lot to be appreciative of, when it came to Mettaton, he thought. And for all that it was a thought (which were things Emet-Selch wanted to lose), it was one worth having. He wanted to know all of his Bonded's self, in both confidence and vulnerability, genuine showiness and genuine concern- and he wanted to show him all of himself in return. Even when the Ascian didn't know what that entailed... he thought he had a better chance of discovering it in Mettaton's company than anywhere else.
Each thrust was a hint, not a warning (where was the danger a warning would imply?), of how soon, and how quickly his throat could be taken again. How it would only take a little more of a push, and he'd feel the pressure of the glans taking up his airway once more, stroking the interior of his throat instead. Stroking deeper and deeper until he could reach no further, and yet Mettaton could still thrust, could still move, could still push and hold his head in place, fucking him to a shared delight. And his throat would be worn and rubbed, and his voice would wither....
It's a warning brief, but unsubtle. A realization that blossoms across the Bond, the Ascian's eyes flashing open in an instant, reflexively scanning upwards to catch sight of his lover's expression. Tall ears and an eye that looks unnaturally bright in both lust and intent, a contrast to the darkness that surrounded the rest of him. But Emet-Selch loved the darkness, even before tempering had etched it into his soul; the sight of Mettaton in the full grip of feral comprehensions was stunningly attractive, a heightening of what had already been excessive. But it was still recognizably him, throughout, no one other than him. And no matter how maddened or contained, Emet-Selch knew he would love him regardless, as his core would be the same.
And then his throat was claimed, his head dragged down, glans popping into place with a solidity that would leave him gasping if he could. Instead, he's caught swallowing around him, throat clenching around this familiar intrusion with just as much intensity as before, as though it hadn't yet realized that it was made to be filled with the heaviness of a cock, and was still protesting the change from air. Struggling futily, it was outmatched by the combination of Mettaton's lock on his head through hand and thigh, and Emet-Selch's own stubbornness, reacting to this blockage by only deepening it, sliding further down his cock.
There were still a few moments of harder spasming before Emet-Selch could force his reflexes under moderate control, tightening and tugging at him still, but not to the point of uncontained gagging or choking. But he had a will to take him deeply. Mettaton wanted to be taken. He said so, in his beautiful voice, relieved at being in his throat, and yet wanting ever more of him- as he should. And as Emet-Selch wanted to give him, both body and soul, every scrap of his awareness and ability.
Even the soreness of his throat becomes another enjoyable ache, like those of bites and cuts, of bruises when pressed. The beat of his pulse reminded him of them all, a backdrop of what should've been discomfort turned into more intensity still, more feelings to satisfy- though nothing could match the pleasure of holding a thick cock in his throat. Of feeling every rub working its way deeper, of his own inability to pull away- from being held, as well as a lack of desire to. He was so stiff and so hot, the cushioned glans providing his sensitive throat a massage it never asked for, but which Emet-Selch reveled in obtaining.
So much so that his own cock begins to harden once more- as though the Ascian needed any more help when it came to feeling lightheaded. But the growing heaviness between his legs causes him to shudder, both from the satisfaction of having that physical sign of long-existing arousal apparent, as well as from the sensation of Mettaton's cock in his throat being its catalyst for forming.]
no subject
He had... a lot to be appreciative of, when it came to Mettaton, he thought. And for all that it was a thought (which were things Emet-Selch wanted to lose), it was one worth having. He wanted to know all of his Bonded's self, in both confidence and vulnerability, genuine showiness and genuine concern- and he wanted to show him all of himself in return. Even when the Ascian didn't know what that entailed... he thought he had a better chance of discovering it in Mettaton's company than anywhere else.
Each thrust was a hint, not a warning (where was the danger a warning would imply?), of how soon, and how quickly his throat could be taken again. How it would only take a little more of a push, and he'd feel the pressure of the glans taking up his airway once more, stroking the interior of his throat instead. Stroking deeper and deeper until he could reach no further, and yet Mettaton could still thrust, could still move, could still push and hold his head in place, fucking him to a shared delight. And his throat would be worn and rubbed, and his voice would wither....
It's a warning brief, but unsubtle. A realization that blossoms across the Bond, the Ascian's eyes flashing open in an instant, reflexively scanning upwards to catch sight of his lover's expression. Tall ears and an eye that looks unnaturally bright in both lust and intent, a contrast to the darkness that surrounded the rest of him. But Emet-Selch loved the darkness, even before tempering had etched it into his soul; the sight of Mettaton in the full grip of feral comprehensions was stunningly attractive, a heightening of what had already been excessive. But it was still recognizably him, throughout, no one other than him. And no matter how maddened or contained, Emet-Selch knew he would love him regardless, as his core would be the same.
And then his throat was claimed, his head dragged down, glans popping into place with a solidity that would leave him gasping if he could. Instead, he's caught swallowing around him, throat clenching around this familiar intrusion with just as much intensity as before, as though it hadn't yet realized that it was made to be filled with the heaviness of a cock, and was still protesting the change from air. Struggling futily, it was outmatched by the combination of Mettaton's lock on his head through hand and thigh, and Emet-Selch's own stubbornness, reacting to this blockage by only deepening it, sliding further down his cock.
There were still a few moments of harder spasming before Emet-Selch could force his reflexes under moderate control, tightening and tugging at him still, but not to the point of uncontained gagging or choking. But he had a will to take him deeply. Mettaton wanted to be taken. He said so, in his beautiful voice, relieved at being in his throat, and yet wanting ever more of him- as he should. And as Emet-Selch wanted to give him, both body and soul, every scrap of his awareness and ability.
Even the soreness of his throat becomes another enjoyable ache, like those of bites and cuts, of bruises when pressed. The beat of his pulse reminded him of them all, a backdrop of what should've been discomfort turned into more intensity still, more feelings to satisfy- though nothing could match the pleasure of holding a thick cock in his throat. Of feeling every rub working its way deeper, of his own inability to pull away- from being held, as well as a lack of desire to. He was so stiff and so hot, the cushioned glans providing his sensitive throat a massage it never asked for, but which Emet-Selch reveled in obtaining.
So much so that his own cock begins to harden once more- as though the Ascian needed any more help when it came to feeling lightheaded. But the growing heaviness between his legs causes him to shudder, both from the satisfaction of having that physical sign of long-existing arousal apparent, as well as from the sensation of Mettaton's cock in his throat being its catalyst for forming.]