[Another grip through teeth, another burst of pain that registered only as another pleasure, another mark to match the one so recently left on his opposite shoulder. A wound that still bled sluggishly, to drip a slow trail down his back (a faintly ticklish sensation that barely registers, lost to all else Emet-Selch was feeling), now matched by a similar one across from it. Less aggressive in design but still deep, the sensation of his lover's teeth hard and piercing in his body was something in itself to revel in. And when it served as well to keep him in place, to be held by hands and jaws, all to be impaled by a thick cock, remorselessly thrusting, he could only tense and shudder from the strength of it all. His body would be made to submit in more than one way.
And even more than in body was the submission in spirit, to not only Mettaton's particular designs on his form, but to the inundation of his feelings. That was even more inescapable than the penetration of incisor or erection, that absolute need to have him and keep him, that protectiveness and care- a boundless wanting that would be easy to drown in. And in a way, the Ascian was, but then- he'd recently learned of the ecstasy to be found in suffocation.
But he could be both consumed by it, while swallowing up in turn. It wasn't a defense- how could he defend against anything of Mettaton's? even if he desired it, it would be a futile gesture- but the only possible response. He would match it, and ever attempt to surpass it. He would demand to be preyed on, the only one for Mettaton to hunt down and capture, tear apart and devour and love like this. And Emet-Selch would protect him, even if he had to burn the world to do it. It was natural for his adoration to occur to him in those terms, involving the mass death or sacrifice of others. How else could love manifest, but in a willingness to ruin all others for the sake of one beloved?
And yet he felt so tenderly for him at the same time, a feeling that didn't register as contradictory. What else was Mettaton doing but expressing the same, through the hardness of each thrust, and the dig of his teeth? They were doing all of this for one another, expressing feelings in a way effective, overwhelming, and ecstatic. A gentleness of heart expressed through the tearing of flesh, the drinking of blood, and the pounding of their bodies.
--How deeply, Emet-Selch could feel him. Even if Mettaton's erection was only the conduit, the Ascian trembled from the force of it, his body bracing itself only to help drive him deeper, to feel the way he curved and fit so precisely inside him. He was hot, and made ever hotter by the friction of their union, evident no matter the slickness of Mettaton's glide, or the accommodation of his body. And he was rigid, no matter the softness of the glans, or the hint of give to his skin, with a stiffness more than capable of forcing him to meld to him, to adapt and take and pleasure his length with tightness and heat.
Every moan on Mettaton's part caught his breath, to the point where it felt like Emet-Selch could scarcely remember to breathe at all, except to add his own voice to the mix. His own sounds of pleasure, of desperation, of pleading- to keep taking him like this. That he would give him everything he wanted, if he wouldn't stop, would always love him and have him--
His voice is a rough whine, reduced past words, and damaged further by each sound he manages to produce. Each rock of his body was pushing him closer to the edge, and it took everything the Ascian had to not only hold on, but to keep from collapsing entirely underneath him. His own erection throbbed with something more than ache, and his own jaws bite absently at the bedcovers beneath him, in some need to tear into something as his body was ravished.
It felt like Mettaton barely left his body at all, which was ideal, the meeting of their hips continuous and hard, a connection that left them so flush that Emet-Selch could feel much of the puca's crotch against his ass. Another reminder, another thrill, of truly understanding how deeply he was taking him- and for all that he wished as well that he could see it, see the impression of that thickness stretching and stuffing him, there was no opportunity for anything like regret. But he knew without doubt that they were beautiful like this together, a carnal intertwining, brutality and adoration expressed in their truest form- something that deserved an audience, despite also knowing that no one else deserved to see such perfection.]
no subject
And even more than in body was the submission in spirit, to not only Mettaton's particular designs on his form, but to the inundation of his feelings. That was even more inescapable than the penetration of incisor or erection, that absolute need to have him and keep him, that protectiveness and care- a boundless wanting that would be easy to drown in. And in a way, the Ascian was, but then- he'd recently learned of the ecstasy to be found in suffocation.
But he could be both consumed by it, while swallowing up in turn. It wasn't a defense- how could he defend against anything of Mettaton's? even if he desired it, it would be a futile gesture- but the only possible response. He would match it, and ever attempt to surpass it. He would demand to be preyed on, the only one for Mettaton to hunt down and capture, tear apart and devour and love like this. And Emet-Selch would protect him, even if he had to burn the world to do it. It was natural for his adoration to occur to him in those terms, involving the mass death or sacrifice of others. How else could love manifest, but in a willingness to ruin all others for the sake of one beloved?
And yet he felt so tenderly for him at the same time, a feeling that didn't register as contradictory. What else was Mettaton doing but expressing the same, through the hardness of each thrust, and the dig of his teeth? They were doing all of this for one another, expressing feelings in a way effective, overwhelming, and ecstatic. A gentleness of heart expressed through the tearing of flesh, the drinking of blood, and the pounding of their bodies.
--How deeply, Emet-Selch could feel him. Even if Mettaton's erection was only the conduit, the Ascian trembled from the force of it, his body bracing itself only to help drive him deeper, to feel the way he curved and fit so precisely inside him. He was hot, and made ever hotter by the friction of their union, evident no matter the slickness of Mettaton's glide, or the accommodation of his body. And he was rigid, no matter the softness of the glans, or the hint of give to his skin, with a stiffness more than capable of forcing him to meld to him, to adapt and take and pleasure his length with tightness and heat.
Every moan on Mettaton's part caught his breath, to the point where it felt like Emet-Selch could scarcely remember to breathe at all, except to add his own voice to the mix. His own sounds of pleasure, of desperation, of pleading- to keep taking him like this. That he would give him everything he wanted, if he wouldn't stop, would always love him and have him--
His voice is a rough whine, reduced past words, and damaged further by each sound he manages to produce. Each rock of his body was pushing him closer to the edge, and it took everything the Ascian had to not only hold on, but to keep from collapsing entirely underneath him. His own erection throbbed with something more than ache, and his own jaws bite absently at the bedcovers beneath him, in some need to tear into something as his body was ravished.
It felt like Mettaton barely left his body at all, which was ideal, the meeting of their hips continuous and hard, a connection that left them so flush that Emet-Selch could feel much of the puca's crotch against his ass. Another reminder, another thrill, of truly understanding how deeply he was taking him- and for all that he wished as well that he could see it, see the impression of that thickness stretching and stuffing him, there was no opportunity for anything like regret. But he knew without doubt that they were beautiful like this together, a carnal intertwining, brutality and adoration expressed in their truest form- something that deserved an audience, despite also knowing that no one else deserved to see such perfection.]